The Chronicle of Perdition
by Vespaer
Summary: Chapter Sixteen - Deep Water Part Two: "No, I'm just here looking for my son."
1. The Journal

**A/N: Wheee new story time! Ahhh this feels good. Like a rebound fling after a hard breakup. Just what the doctor ordered. I really hope you guys enjoy!!! A little warning ahead of time, the beginning has a little graphic non-con going on, but it's what happens after that makes it.  
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**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**1) The Journal**

The wet splash of her footsteps was echoed by the sentinel brick walls, shadowed in misty, damp, moonless springtime lamplight. As Claire marched absentmindedly across campus, feet soaked as she unsuccessfully dodged hidden puddles, she let her freshly written first draft preoccupy her, the lengthy essay's fledgling words buzzing through her carefully plotting brain, already mindful of particular edits and amendments to which she'd need to devote further intensive study. She paused when a sound, out of place next to distant laughter and typical collegiate drunken whooping, met her ears from an alarmingly close proximity. Something was in the bushes to her left, concealed in the black created by a harsh yellow glare from above. Tugging at her elbows, pressing the corners of her books into her ribs, she attempted to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. Beginning to come to terms with her indestructibility was still a slow process, but she did manage not to be daunted – she threw caution to the wind and pressed on.

She'd become a creature of habit. She spent months walking her old routes hounded at first by press, then later by curious mediaphiles hoping to catch a glimpse of what the talking heads on TV and the internet had been going on about so rabidly. By the time the nation's discomforting fascination about '_specials_' like her had filtered down to her immediate classmates, she knew it was time to change something. So… she started walking a different way. And started going out at different times. And stopped studying at the library, opting instead to beg Gretchen for the use of her car, promising only to take it to her dad's house. It was either that or take the bus, like she had this evening. The combination culminated in her current circumstances: a poorly lit walkway late at night, alone, and a long way from home. The situation wasn't ideal for anyone, even an unbreakable girl with no real offensive ability outside of a can of mace she'd probably have to dig for. Looking up as a looming, solid shadow blocked her path, she began to really think for the first time that maybe this wasn't the best plan.

"I know you," he spoke, breaking a dank silence she hadn't noticed had become so oppressive. He stepped into the light where one half of his illuminated face kept the other half in darkness. She halted and rocked backwards on her heels, and despite how affable and handsome the visible parts of his features appeared to be, primal instinct pushed her heart up into her throat where she could truly hear it sound its alarm, pounding against her trachea.

"I'm sorry, I don't – ha-have we met…?"

"You're the girl who jumped off the Ferris wheel in the middle of New York City."

_Great_. Maybe she ought to start thinking of a different _college_. Her dad had been right all along, the smug bastard. It _was_ better, sometimes, just to cover it all up.

"I think you have me confused with someone -"

He clamped a hand onto her arm. _Hard_.

"No. No, I don't think I do. I mean, we can find out, right?"

With a resounding clatter like a flock of noisy birds, her books and papers flew in a grand arc over her head when he jerked her wrist and slammed her body to the ground. Stars flashed behind her eyelids and the wind was knocked from her lungs, crashing her teeth together and narrowly missing her tongue. She didn't get the chance to suck in another breath – he was on top of her, crushing her, one hand smothering her mouth and the other wrestling its way inside her shirt, latching without invitation onto her right breast. Chunky bile burned her esophagus when she felt his sickening erection force its way between her legs. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of crying, but she sure wanted to scream. A second assailant crept up from behind, beyond her narrowed field of vision.

"I'll hold her arms if you can get 'er pants off – remember you promised me a turn!"

Shit… _now_ the tears were coming…

"You'll heal if I hurt you, won't you. Tomorrow, no one's ever gonna know." Her arms were yanked over her head and pinned in place. She tried twisting her legs to kick but the other man was faster, stronger, and heavier – he immobilized them easily under his knees while he made a grand show of sitting back and stuffing one lascivious hand down his own pants to masturbate.

"You think you're so special, bitch? You ain't special til you've had some of _this_." Stroking himself faster he leaned over to lick her face. His labored panting reeked of stale beer. Without interrupting his frenzied ministrations, he used his free hand to pop the button on her jeans. "Mmmm gonna feel so _good_…" Her airway finally free, she attempted to cry for help, but all she could do was sob.

"That's right, baby, we're gonna party – we're gonna party all ni-"

With a sudden vacuous whoosh her attacker disappeared into the sky. She heard footsteps stomping up to her, but she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, the nightmare overloading her senses. The man restraining her arms issued a mighty wail before stumbling backwards, spraying her with the grass, dirt, and stagnant rain water lining the bottoms of his shoes. She curled the freed limbs against her chest and pressed her face into the soaked lawn. There was a short scuffle, consisting of wild grunts and heavily thrown punches before it came to an abrupt end. Gurgles of choked panic piqued her curiosity, and she flipped over onto her butt when she heard the two muted '_thuds_' that silenced them.

And then _his_ voice split the night.

"See, all this talk about being _special_ makes me really cranky. I've learned a thing or two from being _special_…"

Oh, these guys were so screwed.

Feeling a lot like a victimized mouse who'd just been rescued from a couple house cats by a huge and hungry lion, and it was only a matter of time before he noticed she was just as tasty a snack, she unconsciously kicked and clawed at her escape, heels digging and fingernails chewing at the mud, not able to get her brain to do much more than crab-walk and fall.

"And I can tell you," he went on, "contrary to common belief, it's not something you get by," he accentuated his point with a firm, bone-bending shove, "_PICKING ON GIRLS_." Shoulders taught, he stalked closer like a crouching panther, his eyes gleaming with unpredictable mental instability. "You wanna get to know her insides? Maybe she'd like to get to know _yours_." He lifted a deadly finger -

"Sylar don't!" He paused, tilting his chin toward her, but his glare never left his prey. "Please… please don't…"

He smiled a devilish smirk that didn't go a long way toward reassuring anyone.

"You're lucky the lady has mercy – some of us freaks come with _extraordinarily_ high body counts… and I bet you believe me, don't you."

They both nodded, hurriedly.

"Or maybe," Sylar continued as Claire managed to get her feet underneath her, and coax her wobbling knees into supporting her weight. "I could do some… _preventative maintenance_ and just put your balls on the ground. That'd keep you off the ladies, wouldn't it?"

"Sylar I really don't want to see any balls tonight… _please_…"

"Yeah, she doesn't – she doesn't wanna see 'em. She doesn't."

This incited a cruel chuckle.

"Yeah… I don't really wanna see them either. But you should run before the lady changes her mind."

Their legs were pumping before they hit the ground. Hurtling bushes and rounding the corner, they hastily disappeared. Sylar held his stance for a few awkward moments – tall, dark, and straight as a rail, fists white-knuckled at his sides as he stood in stark contrast to the surrounding ambiance, crickets resuming their singing now that the show was over. He had a way of taking up more space than his body had a right to. Her senses catching up with her, Claire shook herself out of a stunned stupor and bent to pick up her scattered belongings.

"I'm sorry, Claire, I don't know what came over me…" She figured now was not the appropriate time to remind him of his psychosis… he'd just rescued her from a nasty gang rape. "But those guys just really pissed me off." The rest came as a hushed whisper that she could barely hear, carried behind him on a light breeze. "I haven't wanted to hurt someone that badly in a long time…"

Holding her books to her chest, still dotted with healing bruises, she winced as she reached for her purse and a couple notepads. The adrenaline was draining, leaving her quaking with shock, her hands trembling too badly to be of any use.

The tiny hiss made him pivot and face her as she bent at the waist, her shaking arm outstretched to collect her things, unable to get her fingers to work. She wept with frustration, unspent rage, and humiliation. She didn't look at him, but she could feel him humming with a renewed bloodthirsty need for murder. Amazingly, he didn't leave her.

"Stop," he murmured softly. "Stop, stop. Here."

A twirl of his fingers landed her remaining items in her waiting arms. Even though he knew better than to mistake her shivering for cold, he removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders anyway. Its scent reviled her – a cross between cinnamon, leather, and sandalwood – the same one that she associated with death, torture, and pain… just the thing she needed to top off the night.

"I think I'm going to throw up," she managed to grind between pursed lips, like a ventriloquist. She almost hoped she got some on the garment.

"That's uh… probably a _natural_ reaction," he replied, oblivious. "We'll walk slow."

_Walk…?_

"Where?" Her teeth were chattering.

"Your… _room_…? I'll take you back there. It's alright – nothing bad's gonna happen."

She was being escorted by a psycho killer to protect her from rapists, and '_nothing bad_' was going to happen? _Right._ She could only blame herself. She _made_ her life weird like this. She used to blame her dad, but she was wrong. It was _all her_. She wished she'd never seen that damned Ferris wheel.

"Okay."

She chose to keep her focus ahead of her, putting one foot in front of the other, recovering. The space between them was modest and oddly companionable – he paced her, shoulder to shoulder, but kept his hands in his pockets, affected by the brisk air in a way she hadn't felt all winter. She let the cool, moist air fill her and leave her reflexively, on autopilot. She wanted a shower. She wanted Gretchen. She wanted to cry – wanted to pour out her weakness and shame in a way she was never going to show this man. She wanted to curl up in a nest made of blankets and bears and drift away through time to a happy, innocent, safe childhood place where danger was completely foreign. She wanted to be clean, warm, and dry. She just wanted to forget... didn't want to think about what would've happened if he hadn't been -

What had he been doing? She stopped and turned to him, looking at him for the first time, not just seeing him or seeing _around_ him. She snarled.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

His eyes dropped, obscured behind thick, dark lashes, and his lips worked without saying anything. She'd caught him of guard, although she couldn't imagine why – did he really think she wasn't going to ask?

"I came to talk to you, but…" an uneasy hand brushed the back of his neck, "I, uh… I haven't figured out _how_."

"So you were just gonna settle for being creepy until the right moment presented itself?"

He shrugged imperceptibly and she wanted to palm her forehead in exasperation.

"Look, I'm getting a little tired of being stalked – and I _know_ it's my fault, okay? I _know_ I brought this on myself – I'm not trying to dispute that. But that doesn't mean things haven't been rough, and I've had a _really hard_ day, so if you've got something you want to say to me, then please just say it and go."

His face hardened, masking a tiny piercing streak of dismissal behind a stony indignant visage.

"It's not that I don't appreciate what you did," she backpeddled, not wishing to tempt his famously fickle temper – just because he couldn't cause her pain didn't mean he couldn't hurt her. "But you're still the man who murdered Nathan. _And_ Meredith. And that's just _two_, out of a number I _really_ don't want to guess. And don't forget, you've attacked _me_ too." His expression fell as he angled away from her, opting to let her truth slap the other cheek, bracing himself for the impact. "What you did to my head isn't any different than what those guys were going to do to my… to the _rest_ of my body." She shifted to free one hand, using it to rip the jacket away from her and thrust it square into the chest of its owner. He accepted it with reluctant fingers. "So please… just say what you wanna say then leave me _alone_."

"I came to try to make peace with you, and tell you that I'm sorry."

"You're sor- you're…?" Oh, the night just wouldn't _end_. She thought she might fall over. "Are… are you kidding…?" She sighed and shook her head. "You know? I'm going to bed, I can make it from here. _Please_ promise me you won't hunt them down and have them drawn and quartered or whatever your sick imagination was gonna come up with…"

"Only if you promise to call the cops and report what happened."

"Call the – call the _cops_…?" she repeated as if she didn't hear him correctly. Exhaustion clouding her judgment and her recent violation stoking a fire in her chest, she met him toe to toe and shoved her face incredulously toward him. "_You_. You want _me_ to call the cops."

"They're gonna do it to someone else, Claire – it needs to be reported."

"_YOU_. Want me to call the cops." He was beginning to catch her drift.

"Yes. _ME_. I know."

"You're aware they're more interested in protecting people like him _against _people like me, right?"

"Not you. _Me_." He pulled an about face, ready to take flight. "Bet that little prick'll bleed like a stuck pig, which is funny. Did you know charred flesh smells like pork -"

"Oh my god, okay, I'll call the cops! Deal?!?"

"And you should call your dad."

"Call my -" She pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. "Sylar, what the hell do you care about my dad?"

"I don't. Personally, I hope he drowns in a freezing river. But if I were him, I'd want to know."

"Yeah… so I can beg _him_ not to hunt them down and kill them too?"

"Claire, we both know your dad doesn't kill the people he hates." He drew his shoulders toward his ears as the previous drizzle began to return. "He'll just make sure they're locked up and blindfolded where they can be waterboarded naked on beds of nails for days on end, or something like that. Your dad'll just make them _wish_ they were dead."

He was right… but if she agreed, maybe he'd go away.

"Fine. I'll call the cops, and I'll call my dad. Are we done here?"

Chafed by her brusque demeanor but completely unable to blame her, he pointedly gestured toward the open expanse of sidewalk leading to the front door of her dormitory, slowly becoming saturated by the growing rain. Eager to separate herself from anything remotely male she immediately turned and began to walk. When she reached her building and slid her fingers over the door handle she risked a backwards glance to find that he'd gone. It was the second strange encounter she'd had with him since that day in the classroom, when he'd shown her Lydia's tattoo of her face on his arm. She didn't want to be thankful for it, but it sure beat the alternative.

~*~*~

*** _three months ago_ ***

"It's a brave new world…"

The promise hanging in the air was as clean as the impending springtime. Breathless, he was standing at the precipice looking out, watching history unfold in the flesh as Claire Bennett made a mockery of contemporary scientific and medical marvels. Footnotes and edits would be forged in textbooks in her honor. Idols in her image would be erected by which to pay her adulation: web pages, movies, comic books… maybe even action figures. Those who were content to hide could continue to do so, but those who weren't were free – she was the liberator of the oppressed. They could be whoever they wanted to be.

And so could he.

At least he'd like to _think_ so. He was aware Peter was the only human being alive who'd had the good fortune to bear witness to his transformation. Their brief albeit forced conversation with Matt Parkman was a perfect testimonial to his detriment, however, depicting exactly how far he had left to go. The five years he'd spent isolated in a private mental purgatory was fiction to the outside world – it never happened. Parkman had even taken the risk of peering one last time into the muddled mess of broken clocksprings that composed his mind, clumsily pushing them around with the stubby tendrils of his psyche, and he wasn't able to find a single shred of evidence that his ordeal had ever existed, despite the fact that he was the one who was responsible for it. Or maybe he just didn't want to _admit_ it.

In the end, it didn't matter if it was real to anyone else – it was real to _him_.

His resolution, however, shook like the tremors that still rippled through her broken body when she stood, snapped her bones back together, brushed off her clothes, and spoke winsomely to the cameras and journalists. Through the throng of mobbing bodies she managed to lock eyes with her uncle… and then _him_. Something indecipherable and unpleasant flashed across her face before she was distracted by frenzied questioning and blinding flashes. Behind and to his right he caught the clipped, yammering jibberish that heralded the approach of an enthusiastic Hiro, joined at the hip, as usual, by his friend. Sylar ducked nervously behind Peter's shoulder when Noah Bennett - ahead and to his left - turned away from the crowd, his blond girlfriend at his elbow, obviously intent on making his way over to engage Peter in an animated conversation. His daughter had just cut the final tie that bound him to his duty as her father and he desperately needed to vent his heartache… he looked like she'd stabbed him in the chest. His expression halted as curtly as his feet when he got a glimpse of his daughter's old nemesis ineffectually hidden in Peter's shadow. His eyes widened in horror and a protective arm shot out at his side, preventing Lauren from progressing any further.

Sylar instinctively staggered backward two or three steps in automatic retreat, begrudgingly exposing himself to an unimpeded line of sight. Hiro had drawn up short as well, tensed for flight, his typically jubilant cherubic face set in a grim line.

"Brain man…" he muttered through the still, thickening atmosphere.

Peter turned a slow circle, ignoring how Emma's smile faded into confusion as the pervading unease seeped into her – he was prepared to diffuse a potentially volatile situation. He held his arms out, evenly bobbing his hands around him in appeasement, trying to inject some calm into the amplifying tension.

Sylar squared his shoulders and lifted his chin in dignified surrender. He knew he wasn't welcome here – whether or not he was prepared to face it, he knew these people hadn't spent the past five years of _his_ life with him, and he knew he was starting from scratch. He had a massive due to pay.

"Gabe," Peter caught his attention, "it's alright, it's okay buddy. I can -"

"No Peter, you can't. It's not right." He could easily let Peter solve all his problems for him – no one would disbelieve the boy scout, he was a cherished member of their inner sanctum, to know him was to trust him. But Sylar fought his own battles, having vowed long ago he would never again allow another person to dictate what routes his life would take. "I have to do this. I _need_ it."

"Where're you gonna go?" Peter asked, dipping an ear toward his shoulder in an amicable display of genuine concern. Sylar fought hard against feeling patronized; he knew that wasn't the man's intention but it was habitual.

"I'm in New York," he returned, bending at the waist in a shallow half-bow. "I'm going home."

He spared a parting glance to Bennett, whose wild west trigger finger was itching to show him just how fast he could draw. His spitfire lady was one step behind, not hesitating to display exactly how lightly she rested one hand on her scarcely concealed holster in anticipation. Neither of their eyes left him, imaginary crosshairs glued between his eyes. Their world wasn't ready for him and certainly held no desire for his presence… so why did he want them so badly? He had no interest in forgiveness – he needed that specter on his back to remind him why he'd changed. Was it absolution? A mechanism by which to achieve inner peace? Is that what they represented? He could easily pack up his life and leave them all behind forever, start over with a clean slate where no one knew anything about his disgracefully repulsive past… but the idea ran a charge down his spine that he just couldn't reconcile – it felt like a _lie_. Maybe what he was after was _more_ punishment.

He could no more move ahead than he could move back. He'd exchanged one limbo for another. He was just as alone as… he always had been. All of his life. With ironic contrast to the sinking sensation in his heavy heart, he took to the sky and left them behind to relax and revel in his blissful absence.

His feet touched pavement again in Queens, already certain the venture would be fruitless, but since he'd spent the past five years in the abandoned building he had to see it for himself – had to see what had become of it since Sylar was born. He stood on the sidewalk across the street for a long time, staring at where the sign used to be, trying to recapture forgotten nuances in the brick, the paint on the windowsills, the neighboring structures… the way his skin crawled with creeping memory. Eventually he swallowed the melancholy knot in his throat and entered the Starbucks that had taken the place of Gray & Sons.

Masterfully conquering a weariness that still threatened to tug at the corners of his eyes, he employed a bit of roguish charm and made small talk with the barista behind the counter while she twisted at the waist, nimbly preparing a double shot of espresso with the kind of efficiency that only came with a lot of practice. According to her, after the owner of the building had befallen an accidental death (rumored to have been impaled by her own pair of scissors) and the beneficiary, her only son, had gone missing, the estate came under the ownership of the woman's ex-husband who then sold the property. When asked if he knew the previous residents he merely smiled and stated flatly that he'd been interested in their business. With the tiny, bone-white cup pinched between his fingertips he said his thanks and took his leave of her, sliding into a chair partnering a small table.

He scanned for any sign of the old floor plan – a scuff or a crease where something heavy used to sit. The reconstruction of the interior had gone a long way to erase all indications of prior habitation. The place was spotless… except for the ceiling. Lifting his eyes as he tipped back the warm, bitter liquid he noticed a spreading brown splotch – a water stain. The bathroom of the apartment upstairs was directly over his head. He distinctly remembered creating that blemish when he was eleven years old – he'd accidentally overflowed the bathtub. Mother had been absolutely outraged that he could be so careless… his knuckles still stung from the unforgiving impact of the ruler.

He turned away in favor of a change in scenery, drowning in nostalgia as he gazed at the hauntingly familiar landscape through the alien window. Even in the dark he could see the salon across the street… the bakery, the old theatre… None of these things embraced their prodigal son. He dropped his nose toward the tabletop as he helplessly leaned into it. He was destitute. He had no family, he had no friends. He was _homeless_. He was buried in a deep, suffocating grave of guilt and shame. He was rebuilding himself from square one and had no idea where to start. He was… so…

"You look _lost_," a voice interrupted his inward spiral. The barista was wiping down a table next to him. He guarded his discomfort behind a small puff of laughter, fidgeting with his fingers and staring down the last dregs of his coffee.

"I suppose you could say I am."

The girl fisted her towel on her cocked hip for a moment, in thought.

"My mom used to tell me, if I couldn't find the way forward, sometimes it was helpful to examine where I've _been_."

"Your mom's a smart lady." He bit back against the sudden flare of envy. "How's that working out for you so far?"

"I dunno," she replied, dropping her hand to rest next to her thigh, "okay, I guess. My bills are paid and I'm in school… I'm alright. Can't complain."

_Can't complain…?_ That would be a step up from his present circumstance. Perhaps the advice was sound. He drained the cup and stood.

"Well, I'll give that a shot, thank you."

"Have a good night." Canned spam response, forged by repetition. Nonetheless, he appreciated the distraction the conversation had provided – he stuffed a couple bucks in the tip jar before exiting and leaving the past behind him in piteous empty ruin.

He decided against flight, thinking perhaps a final stroll groveling through his old neighborhood was more befitting of his mood. He caught a street vendor in the middle of packing away his wares for the night, anxious to get out of the street before less desirable elements started sneaking out of the shadows. Easily persuaded into a last minute sale, Sylar soon found himself in the possession of a handful of ladies' costume jewelry… which subsequently was transmuted into solid gold. The items were pawned for a healthy handful of cash which was frugally spent on two weeks' room and board at an extended-stay hotel near the airport, a couple arms full of groceries, a package of inkpens… and one blank journal.

Late that night, after a sparse meal of spaghetti prepared in his modest kitchenette, he sat Indian-style in the middle of his bed, boney elbows digging holes in his knees and his cheeks smooshed against the heels of his palms, staring at the gleaming, open face of the blank paper. He _had_ to remember what happened to him. He needed something from it that was real – _tangible_. Now that he was once again surrounded by sentience, with its racing pulses tempting him with covetous abilities and secrets to which he wasn't _good_ enough to be privy, scorning him with thinly veiled disgust jabbing a painful rage within him he feared he wouldn't be able to contain… a _hunger_… he needed the physical reassurance that he'd changed – if he'd done it there, he could do it here. Needed it because no one else was going to do it for him.

And so, tuning out the background warblings of businessmen and philandering politicians with their mistresses, he set himself to the considerable task of chronicling his time spend in perdition, preserving the memory in the hopes it would show him how to move on.

~*~*~

*** _present_ ***

The police had finally left, taking their crisp, indifferent professionalism with them. Puffy eyed but soothed, Claire swaddled herself more tightly with her fuzzy, rubber duckling yellow bathrobe and hunkered down in her nest of wadded tissues while Gretchen sweetly combed her wet hair.

"I… I just feel so stupid… I should've _known_…" she hiccupped.

"You say that like it's _your_ fault there's sick, evil people in the world."

"I know… but _Gretch_… he wanted to _hurt_ me -"

"The irony isn't lost on me -"

"Hurt me for what I _am_. If it's happening to me, then it's happening to others out there and I'm _responsible_."

Gretchen tugged at her distraught roommate's shoulder in order to catch her eyes.

"Here, look at me. You're just one girl, and you're just a college student. The only thing you're responsible for is taking care of yourself and getting good grades. You only jumped off that Ferris wheel because you wanted to stop keeping secrets and living a lie – is that so wrong? I mean, isn't it the _world's_ fault for not living up to your expectations?"

She barked a harsh laugh. "Isn't that kinda… Maybe I shouldn't have -"

"_No_, Claire. No matter what you did, there's _no good reason_ why that guy should feel like he could do to you what he did. And there's no _way_ you should feel sorry about that."

"I don't know what would've happened if…" She habitually cringed, loathe to even say the words. "It was so strange… _Sylar_ was there. He _saved_ me."

"Waitaminute… you told the cops you didn't see the guy who rescued you…"

"I know I did, I know. It's just easier that way," she replied, releasing a sigh and trailing her fingers over her sleepy face. "He made me call the cops. And he asked me to call my dad…"

"Wait – _Sylar_… wasn't… wasn't that the charmer who stole my backpack? Blew out all the windows? Killed your -"

"The very one," she affirmed, flourishing a hand in the air.

"Did you remind him he owes us new _bedding_?"

"New… _what_?"

"It rained the next day, remember? Everything was soaked? And I'm still picking _glass_ out of my hair every morning…"

"You know, I gotta say, it slipped my mind." Ready to finish her chores for the evening, she pointed a sagging arm toward her table. "Could you hand me my phone? It's in my purse, on top of my books."

Gretchen was a long-limbed filly of a girl, tall and capable of a graceful, efficient gait but in her youth she was still a tad ungainly at times. The only thing she managed to do was drag the purse to the floor, toppling the neatly stacked pile of books.

"Oh crap…"

"Here, lemme help."

"Shit, I'm sorry, Claire, I just – hey, what's _this_?" She held up a small, nondescript, leather-bound tome. "It's pretty – is it new?"

"I dunno, I've never seen that before in my life… I don't know _where_ it came from…" Having found her phone, Claire ignored the mess opting to place her final phone call for the evening. Gretchen flopped the book open across her lap but stopped to address her friend before she continued.

"You're not gonna call your dad _this_ late are you?"

"You kidding? He'll come over and keep us up all night. I'm calling _mom_. I'll visit dad in person tomor- oh hey mom! Yeah I know it's late, I'm sorry – no, I'm alright! Well, not really, but I _am_… I just…" She didn't know where to start. _'Hey mom – I'm half a nation away and I just got brutally attacked tonight, how're you doing?'_ seemed a bit harsh. "No, no, we're good – what? Oh yeah we're eating okay, yeah… yeah, the check cleared, I'm good, meal plan's taken care of – no, no I don't need more money, I mean _sure _I'll always take it but I don't _need_ it… _MOM_, there's something I need to tell you. Yes, I'm okay, no I'm not hur- oh my god, mom, _of course_ I'm not hurt. I just had a little scare tonight is all, but we called the cops, and -"

Gretchen could hear the mounting hysteria from where she was sitting.

"Yes, yes I'm okay – mom I'm _OKAY_. _YES_. The police are taking care of it and they're gonna get the guy." She paused to listen. "Well, there's not much to say, he just grabbed me is all and then someone else scared him off and then it was all over. We think he might've been drinking." She neglected to mention the scrubbing she gave herself in the shower until her skin was an angry, blazing shade of rose or the good twenty minutes she sobbed after the police had asked her to relive the whole event all over again in nauseating detail. There was something about her mother that brought out the understatement in her. By the same token, she could tell Sandra wanted to ask her if the attack had anything to do with her recent state of renown. The question also went unvoiced. "No, no it wasn't anyone I'd seen before, no one I knew. Just some nutjob… but they'll catch him, mom. I gave them a good report. No, no I don't have anything going on this weekend. Oh, oh I'd love to, that would be so great, just to get away! Sure, lemme ask her." She whirled around to her roommate, using a three fingertips to cover the receiver. "Gretch – you wanna come with me to my mom's this weekend? She and Doug are hooking us up with plane tickets – they're cheap right now through Southwest."

"Yeah, that sounds great," came the distracted reply from the brunette who was completely engrossed, flipping through the pages that rested on her knees.

"Yeah we're in, oh my gosh I could really use that right now." Her mother had a way of hearing the strain in her tone no matter what she did to hide it. "You will??? Oh mom, I love you so much, I _miss_ your waffles! She's gonna make us waffles, Gretch! Yes, I know! I can't wait to see those roses! Well, I miss Muggles too. Yes. Mhmm. I love you too. I'll check my e-mail in the morning – yes I have my drivers license, I know. Okay… okay, I'll call you when we get to the airport. Okay. I love you too. Good bye – huh? Oh yes – I got an eighty-eight on the test, which I'm happy with, I mean it's not my best – whuh? Oh yeah, that was easy. And I got my paper done. No, everything's on time. Mhmm, I know. Okay mom. I love you too. G'nite."

Head pounding but realizing that a visit from her dad would've taken much longer, Claire flipped the phone shut.

"Where did you say you got this?" Gretchen's hushed whisper rang between her ears, referring to the object that still held her rapt attention.

"Like I said, I don't know – I've never seen it before."

"And it's _not_ yours."

Claire could only smile and shake her head. "Uhh… _no_, Gretch. It's not mine."

"This is fascinating… as a criminal justice major I could sit and read this all night long…"

"…uh… what is it? Do I wanna know?" Her mouth ran dry, suddenly afraid it was dropped by her would-be rapist.

"There's some pretty heavy stuff in here, Claire…" Leaving her thumb in the spine to hold it open, she passed it over with solemn respect. "I don't think it's the kind of thing you typically see from your average drunk jock on a power trip. And that's my professional opinion."

Claire gingerly received it and let its covers fall open to softly smack her terry-cloth covered thighs. Immediately she recognized the handwriting… from that day… on the chalkboard…

Impulsively she leapt to her feet letting the journal clatter to the floor, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. She didn't even want to breathe, it was like the thing was a coiled cobra ready to gnaw on her hands.

"Oh my god, Gretchen, he would _KILL_ us if he knew we had this!!!"

"So you _know_ who it belongs to!"

Claire whipped around and gripped the girl firmly by the shoulders and gave her a good shake.

"He's murdered for less, Gretch!!! Oh god…" her hands fell away, and she sank her clammy forehead between them.

"I don't understand" –

"It's _Sylar's_. I think he got in a short fight with one of the guys – he must've dropped it. Oh _hell_, Gretchen… he'll _know_… eventually he's gonna figure it out and he's going to come _looking_ for it…"

"So you'll give it to him – so what?"

"So what?!? Gretchen! He'll -"

"He can't hurt you Claire. And look at it this way: he screws up your life and disappears for months, then he shows back up so he can trick you into having… a heart-to-heart in a closet? And now he's rescuing you and defending your honor…?"

"He also tried to tell me he was sorry…"

"Psychopaths don't apologize, Claire, I'm telling you – something doesn't add up here. I've studied killers and I've studied cases. Something is definitely up with this guy. And if I had a psycho mass murderer who made such a huge impact on my life suddenly show up and start acting all _weird_ and stuff… for the sake of everyone I knew and loved I would want to know _why_. And the answers are probably lying right there on the floor. That's just my two cents."

She could just give it back to him. He'd never have to know she read it. So long as the human lie detector didn't ask outright…

"No, he has _ways_, Gretch… he'd know. He's spooky like that." She tucked her damp hair behind her ear as she stooped to pick the book back up. Smoothing her hands over the rich, brown bindings she begged them to leave it shut.

"Suit yourself, I'm gonna go get us some Cheez-Its, that'll make _everything_ go away."

"Gretch," she caught her as she turned, "I know it's not easy being the girl with the crazy roommate. I just… I need you to know… I'm not the only person here that's '_special_'. You have the ability to heal everything that hurts me, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well… you'd be talking to _yourself_ for starters." Happy to see her roommate smile, Gretchen slipped away to the vending machines, leaving Claire alone with the written manifestation of Sylar's heart and soul, it's hefty weight growing warm between her limp fingers.

He had wanted to make peace and tell her he was sorry. He kept her from harm and… he had been _merciful_. Before she knew what she'd done a light breeze tickled her chin, wafted from the fanning of the open pages. She needed to receive the peace and the apology as badly as he needed to give it. There was only one way she was going to find out for sure if his intentions were honest and true.

When Gretchen returned, noisily brandishing her crinkly bagged treasures, she found Claire reclined against her pillows with her knees pulled toward her chin, supporting a proper resting position for the text, thoroughly captivated by the words, her curiosity pulling her down every line.

"That didn't take long," she chuckled to herself.

**A/N #2: And there's our boy, flirting with baristas again...** **habits die hard.**


	2. Shyness

**A/N: Tossed some other characters into this mix with this chapter - ones I didn't get the pleasure of working with in the last story. It's my desire to see more of Tracy in this story (I have some plans for her), and we're gonna see some Pemma. Basically, I'm sticking to what the show gave us. A word of warning, however - I wrote a certain chunk of this while I had PMS... it made me a bit weepy. But we're all better now =D Enjoy!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**2) Shyness**

Tracy should have been stressed. Her savings account was dwindling and unemployment wasn't exactly going to keep her in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed. Unless she capitulated on her principles and sulked her way back into politics, she had no prospects. And yet, as she basked in the spreading warmth of the nascent morning sun blowing the steam billowing from a cup of herbal tea while scanning the help wanted ads in a neatly folded section of newspaper, she couldn't be bothered by her present state of idleness. She wasn't tucked away in the stall of a bathroom fighting to keep from throwing up under the pressure of unreasonable demands, she wasn't a poker chip to be used for her body and not her brain, and she wasn't some idiot in high heels and a stiff pencil skirt acting as the primary source of amusement for a completely male staff. She wasn't being lied to and she was nobody's fool. No – she was quite comfortable in her jogging fatigues and cross-trainers, thank you very much, and she could be anyone she wanted to be, which didn't include prostituting herself for the "Boys' Club". She was perfectly relaxed.

She'd managed to find a seat on the patio of the breakfast bistro before the regular Sunday morning church crowd arrived to inundate the wholly inadequate premises. Enjoying the temporary serenity, flavored with lyrical birdsong and the invigorating scent of blooming springtime blossoms, she dabbed her napkin at lingering biscotti crumbs and reached for her tea. Pausing a moment to circle a promising lead – she was giddy at the thought of a mundane job as a medical records tech where she'd get to wear _scrubs_ – she sipped at the scalding rim, which she immediately tore away with a hiss. _Still too hot._ As she pursed her lips for another useless round of air blasting, a wicked thought popped into her head.

This world was not the same one it was a few months ago.

She'd watched Claire Bennet jump on the news. She'd YouTubed it seven times afterwards – in a _row_. Micah had called her and told her to watch. Molly had called him. Matt Parkman had called Molly after Noah Bennet had called _him_, sobbing some nonsense about kids and broken hearts and letting go. And in the amount of time it took for that girl to hit the ground the entire world had changed.

If the tea was too damned hot to drink and she could _do_ something about it… then why shouldn't she? Holding the mug securely but naturally between both hands, she beamed with satisfaction as the surface of the liquid clouded with the opaque appearance of feathery frost. Crystals collected on the sides of the ceramic container and across the handle, and the steam was arrested in mid-air.

She didn't care who saw her.

The receding wave of cold seeping back into her arms, she tested the sweet, fragrant blend of hibiscus and lemongrass and found it to be perfectly tepid. She lifted her pen, ready to resume her task, when she shivered with the completely expected sensation of being watched. She locked eyes with a young girl seated across the patio, face agape with youthful wonder as she precariously draped her limbs over the back of her chair, a to-go cup wrung between her hands being timidly lifted as if in offering. Tracy knew what she wanted… didn't see the harm in it – really, the girl could burn herself. So, she made a decision and did what she thought was best.

The second the paper cylinder thawed the air was split by the squawk of chair legs being scraped against the pavement. The girl's companion, presumably her mother, stuffed her cellphone into her purse with far greater force than was necessary as she jumped to her feet and rounded the side of the table.

"Cassie. Let's go," she addressed her daughter with an impatient tug at her elbow.

She made a very pointed attempt, as they re-entered the interior of the restaurant, to convey through her facial expression just exactly how much she didn't appreciate Tracy's help or the fact that she'd somehow completely ruined their morning with her unwarranted behavior. She was condemned for lowering the temperature of a cup of hot chocolate to a level that was safe to drink. Her other crime had been carrying out the selfless act of charity in public. Despite Claire's best intentions, the world wasn't ready for their kind.

Still stunned by such a blatant brush with discrimination she failed to notice the man who appeared from her periphery to plop unceremoniously into the seat before her.

"Excuse me? I -"

"Keep your voice down or someone'll get hurt."

What was this about…? Did she know this guy? Or, better yet… did he know _her_…?

He ripped the napkin from her plate to quickly fling it over the hand he slammed on the table between them. He held a partially obscured object tightly inside.

"What do you…"

It was a taser. Recognition hardened her face.

"I heard that regular bullets don't have much of an effect on you," he explained at her reaction, "but I bet _electricity_ is a different matter."

Not completely letting go of her faculties to fear, she memorized the features of her assailant. He had thick, bushy, ruddy auburn hair with a matching complexion, and blue eyes that were heavily lined and too narrow to be considered attractive by most. He had a boomerang-shaped scar on his pointy chin and a small brown splotch on his right temple.

"Now, be a good girl," he continued, "and come with me."

She'd just managed to clamp her fingers around the strap of her purse when he roughly yanked her by the arm, pressing close against her to make their struggle far less conspicuous to prying eyes.

"Where are you -"

"Shut up," he answered with a shove. They left the establishment and circled the block to converge upon a suspicious looking white van… with a pair of legs hanging out of the sliding side door. Her kidnapper brought them both to an abrupt stop. She could tell this wasn't part of the plan, judging by how his gulping breath stuttered in her ear.

"Ji-Jim, buddy…? Uh, what're you… doin…?"

There was movement inside the vehicle, but it _wasn't_ Jim. A tall, smartly dressed black man with noble, high cheekbones stepped evenly through the open doorway to stand calm and straight on the sidewalk, both hands folded neatly behind his back. Tracy whipped around, released in time to watch her attacker stumble backwards a few unsteady steps. Flattening her back against the bricks of a neighboring building, she stared as his face grew slack with an obvious loss of comprehension, reality slipping from his brain like a snake glides through the detritus of a forest floor. His nose began to bleed before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed against the pavement. She'd never really been the damsel in distress kind, but she was polite enough to know when a '_thank you_' was in order.

"You… really, I can't thank you en-"

She was interrupted when a sleek, black limousine came to a screeching halt at an odd angle to the van, creating a small amount of drama as it did a fine job blocking traffic.

"Come," her rescuer finally spoke, gesturing toward the car. "Get in." He had an unmistakable accent.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Reassured, however, by the distinct lack of weaponry, she graciously complied. She was greeted upon entry by the familiar and regal sound of Angela Petrelli's voice.

"Hello, Tracy."

The Haitian shut the door behind him as they sped away.

"Angela," Tracy returned. "Your timing is impeccable."

"It _always_ is," she smiled, softly patting her lap in confident amusement while watching the cityscape slide past her window. "Of course, I've been known to cheat a bit. I had a dream about you."

"Hmm, of course. I don't suppose you'd _know_ anything about those guys, or what they wanted?"

"Extremists, sprung from a conservative group growing out of the Midwest that calls themselves 'the Preservists'. They're nothing but a consortium of religious fearmongerers, that's all. Although I suppose that doesn't make them completely unworrisome. Lately they've begun to spread this direction, and they've been lobbying congress for the regulation of people like us, asking us to register and license our abilities like firearms. In the interest of fairness, when I think of a man like Sylar, I can't admit that some of their reasoning isn't entirely unsound. For the most part, they're just people like anyone else, peaceful and afraid for their families." Her jaw clenched with a sorrow that tugged at the corners of her aging eyes. "However, their agenda is attractive to low-mentality bigots who have larger guns than brains."

"Oh yeah, _that_ doesn't blur the line between right and wrong at _all_."

"I don't disagree."

"So why are they chasing after me?"

"Some of them will stop at nothing to bend the ears of politicians, particularly their spokesman, Neil Culbertson."

"I've seen him on the news."

"Yes. It's not a far stretch to believe that my son's name has come up in conversation. And, by association, that would lead to you."

"What do you think they wanted?"

"I don't wish to speculate, my dear, and I suggest you do the same. But that's not my only reason for meeting with you." Angela Petrelli had a funny way of setting up meetings. Angela Petrelli had a funny way of doing a lot of things. The obscenely wealthy woman was as eccentric as her strange ability. "I understand you're looking for a job."

Tracy barked a harsh chuckle, her steely mask gluing her eyes to the distant horizon.

"I've been managing."

"Hardly, my girl, you're fooling no one. I'd like to make you an offer." Their eyes met appraisingly, each sizing the other up. "I have work I think might interest you."

~*~*~

The café inside the student union just didn't make the coffee strong enough. She was certain the only kind of elixir that was going to cure her residual fatigue, leftover from the nightmares that had plagued her sleep all night, could only be produced by the blackest witchcraft. Claire pushed her fork around eggs that tasted more like powder in her mouth before giving up and rising to her feet, swaying sleepily as she shouldered her backpack.

"This isn't a good idea," Gretchen murmured privately, not quite ready to leave but joining her roommate anyway. "You've had a hard time – you should stay home and rest. You barely touched your breakfast."

"All I'm gonna do, sitting in that room, is go stir crazy thinking about his hand on my… you know, over and over. It's how phobias get started." She was quoting her psychology textbook. She enjoyed the class – perhaps it was a good career choice for her. "I need to get back to my life, I need things to go back to normal… and I need to face this fear. I'm going to class."

After they exited the building, the brunette gave her arm one final supportive squeeze before moving north to the social science building, leaving Claire to fork away to the south, toward her English class. Her eyes roved her feet as she walked and she wished she'd worn different shoes, to give her something more interesting to look at. She wasn't ready to hold her head up. She wasn't prepared to see his face in every man she passed. Her armor wasn't strong enough to handle the visual assault – watching eyes duck away from her in unvoiced apprehension, or the heads that crowded together to mumble hateful hushed whispers at her expense. Not until the chink was repaired. It was bitterly ironic, given the reason she'd jumped off the Ferris wheel in the first place was to produce the exact opposite effect. She'd never been a particularly shy girl, nor was she the kind who would be content to hide from her troubles – this perpetual reticence was contrary to the nature of a girl designed to withstand _anything_ – but she couldn't take on the whole world by herself. So she withdrew, ignoring how others withdrew from her, morose over how difficult it was to tear down a wall that was so damned easy to build.

A slamming car door caught her attention, begrudgingly ripping her eyes from the pavement out of bothersome reflex. She paused as she held the handle of the entrance between her fingers, eyeballing a white van parked across the street. Something about it spooked her. It was obviously a commercial vehicle, but nondescript enough to keep the nature of its business hidden. It was the kind of van her _dad_ used to use – she knew the type well. Leaving it behind, she plodded absentmindedly down the hallway as she pounded a text message to her father, asking him to meet her after her classes, she'd let him buy her lunch, she had some things she wanted to talk about. She wanted him there in case someone tried… something else.

She didn't want to leave her potential rescue in _Sylar's_ hands again.

It was too late. Try though she might to shove him out of her mind, it was already the third time his name had popped in there since she woke up. As if the events of the previous evening weren't enough to agitate a regretful case of insomnia, she had to go and spend her waking hours reading his damned journal. And the parallel she drew from his words was striking enough to still leave her unsettled as she folded herself into her desk. The first to enter the class, she spent her precious few minutes of solitude with her chin perched on the heel of her hand, eyes glazed with the lull of distant daydream. Her brain just _really_ wanted to think about him… and with no one else to witness the spectacle, she decided to indulge the impulse.

~*~*~

*** _day one, in Hell_ ***

It was no secret Virginia Gray had been a somewhat… unbalanced individual. The youth that Sylar could remember had been spent either agape with reverent wonder at the fragile treasures of his grandfather's watch shop after school, or upstairs in private home bible study, learning like a good boy to fear God and the hand that wielded the mighty ruler or, sometimes, a belt. He was a sweet angel and could be anything he wanted to be… so long as he was penitent. And yet, here he was… _penitent_… striving to be something more than what he was, something someone could believe in. Something _he_ could believe in.

But by far the greatest thing he'd come to fear, as a result of his upbringing, was the Rapture – the sudden disappearance of every living soul God had chosen worthy of the extraction – granted a free pass straight into the halcyon grace of heaven, spared the inconvenience of agonizingly shedding a mortal coil. He'd always known he'd be left behind – unwanted, unincluded, and forgotten. He didn't know why he'd ever hoped for anything better. He certainly shouldn't have been surprised. He was a troubled little boy and an evil man, no matter what sweet words Virginia promised him. No matter how hard she tried to strike from him his wickedness.

But Parkman wasn't God, so there was hope for him yet. This was like a trial run.

Parkman _was_, however, a sadistic fuck (family man or not, he _had_ been a cop, so it kind of went with the territory) which meant that his private purgatory was stuck smack dab in the middle of his least favorite season… eternally. Early spring. And not the kind of spring that conjures images of rainbows and daffodils and children coloring Easter eggs, giddy to sprint across infant blades of veridian grass in the balmy outdoors playing games for their chocolate. No, this was perpetual March – wet, gusty, and abysmal… cold enough that the damp sinks deep into aching bones but never quite to the point that would allow for the formation of pretty, entertaining, snowman kind of snow.

He was done walking. After eight square miles in the bitter shadows of looming, judging, mocking buildings, hoarse from frantic calls that were only answered by lonely echoes, he got it – he really did. There were no crowded subways, there were no crazy cab drivers, the sidewalks were hauntingly clear, and there wasn't a sound outside of the whistling wind and the muted coos of pigeons. He sat down in the middle of the street – right on the line, just because he could – and tugged his black jacket around him a little tighter. He was too exhausted by savage anger to cry. He was numb with acceptance – he deserved this.

He began to shiver when the fading light was dim enough to obscure the painted stripe under his butt. Standing and turning a slow circle, gazing up at his jail of high-rises, he guessed he had a couple million beds from which to choose – it was probably time he found one. Approaching an ancient but well-maintained tower purported to be comprised of trendy, expensive lofts, he shuffled to a stop when he caught a sudden flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Scanning the area, squinting against the increasing darkness, he sucked in a quick gasp when out of a black alleyway peered two glowing almond shaped eyes.

"Here, kitty kitty," he muttered, recognizing the opportunity. If Claire Bennet could set aside her insecurities to make a friend, then so could he. Even the lunatic, Samuel, seemed content to put forth an extreme amount of effort in order to reach out to a girl he used to know, without any guarantee that she'd return his affection. If he wanted his world to change, he would have to do something about it. In order to receive a little love, he would have to give it.

He pushed his way through a revolving glass door, unsurprised the city's ghostly residents had left the entire metro area unlocked to him. One look inside at the falsely unfinished appearance of the bamboo floor paneling, the modern minimalist gunmetal front desk area, and the vogue hanging lampwork told him rich hippies had definitely lived there once. And rich hippies had cat food. He hit paydirt on the third apartment he inspected. Using a large leather boot to prop open the impressive entrance to the building, he placed an open can of gelatin-coated processed chicken and beef in the middle of the foyer, relying on the relative warmth of the interior to prove the smell of food too irresistible to ignore. From there, he draped himself behind the front desk, settling in to wait, feet landing heavily on the lavender acrylic top, making himself cross-eyed from the glare of a still-working computer terminal playing round after unsatisfying round of solitaire.

A game designed for _one_.

Just before he gave up, determined to try again another night, he rubbed his throbbing eyes and shifted to stand up, his chair eliciting a tiny squeak. Another minute stirring grabbed his attention and focused it on a little body crouched against the floor, tensed for flight. In many ways, she reminded him of himself: leggy and far too slender, opportunistic but distrustful, threadbare from stress, with a predatory instinct halted by a need for self-preservation. She was a mostly-white calico with an orange tail and a tortoiseshell splotch over both ears.

"Hey there, Headphones," he whispered to her. "You hungry?"

Like most living beings he'd encountered in his young existence… she wanted nothing to do with him. For a long while after she'd bolted back the way she came he stared at the spot where she'd stood before she succumbed to her fearful timidness. His head hanging tight against his shoulders, he tried not to let a wave of sorrow wash over him. It was ridiculous and naïve to think she'd automatically drop her feral nature. He had to start somewhere.

He tried again the following evening with no success – she never came closer, she always ran away. He continued his barren attempts for another two weeks. She became the Wilson volleyball to his Tom Hanks. On the fifteenth day, however, she arrived earlier than usual – in the middle of the afternoon while he was sunning himself in the hallway in front of the elevators, reading '_The Catcher in the Rye_'. His eyes stayed with her, but beyond that he didn't move a muscle, leaving the book where it had been perched in his lap, scarcely able to breathe let alone turn a page. She'd been in a scuffle – she had a mark over one eye that had begun to swell and weep. She was ill and weak and so desperate for a meal that she'd been able to put aside her shyness and throw caution to a very slight breeze. She rocked forward inch by inch on reluctant paws, her two wide gleaming orbs glued to him, sinewy muscle beneath her shabby coat coiled and ready for escape or defense. Staring him down, she dropped her pink nose down against the rim of the newly offered can – ocean fish medley today – and plucked a couple chunks between her needle-like teeth.

Something blossomed within him, like a rose rising toward the sky taking root in the wounds of his heart, and it felt like hope. He managed to keep still until she finished his offering… but his leg was falling asleep. He tilted almost imperceptibly on one sit bone, hoping to free up some circulation, but that was all she needed to see. She flattened herself against the floor and sidled backwards, torn between fleeing and licking every last drop of precious fat and protein from the tin container, but then his own blasted reflex had to go and ruin everything. Before he could stop it, he flung out a hand.

"No – don't go!"

In the blink of an eye she was gone.

There was a thin line between hope and frustration. It snapped. Like a tightly wound guitar string. He launched from his position, limping gawkily on his one numb leg, slamming himself into the rail of the revolving door until the boot was finally pinched away. Stumbling out into the street he ripped his jacket free and slapped it against the pavement.

"I just… I just wanna know you!!!" he screamed at the empty air. "I just wanna be your friend – _fuck_!!! I just…" He just wanted contact with another living being. He needed… "I need you!!!"

When had he stopped _enjoying_ being this thing that incited so much terror?

"Fuck you! I don't mean it – I don't _need_ you – I don't need _any_ of you!!! You're lucky to be alive, you know that?!? I've _killed_ for less! _HORRIBLY_!!! Fuckin' bitch…"

He didn't put out a can the next day… but he did the day after that – Alaskan cod, the one he imagined to be her favorite – by way of apology for his outburst. She never showed up. He didn't see her for three days, but on the fourth… he _smelled_ her.

He'd come to find – quite logically, since his imprisonment was purely a figment of his own twisted psyche and the brain in which it resided was hardwired to treat his body's welfare as its primary incentive – that food items never really went bad there. He was sure there was a better reason – an ugly one assuredly pertaining to his sentence, and that it was certain to eventually rear its head – but in the meantime he was happy for the blessing. Having finally depleted the stores in the pantry of apartment number three, he decided to head out in search of a local market in order to resupply.

The acrid stench of death invaded his nostrils the instant he stepped outside. Following the odor around the corner he found her carcass stiffly curled next to a soggy pile of cardboard boxes blown haphazardly against a dumpster. It appeared as if she'd been laid low by infection, most likely incurred by the extent of her previous injury.

One meal was not enough. He'd scared her. He'd _yelled_ at her. He felt like such shit. How… how could love ever stay if everything kept running away…?

It was then he finally realized. This place wasn't about repentance or punishment. It wasn't about healing and turning his life around and becoming a better man than Ebenezer Scrooge. It was about _revenge_.

_This_ place… _this_ place was out to _crush_ him.

~*~*~

Claire yawned unabashedly when her biology class ended. Dazedly gathering her things, she noticed there were huge holes in her notes, whole chunks of information that hadn't been captured. That was going to sting come exam time… Yet, with an artistry she hadn't been aware she possessed, portrayed as beautifully as a photograph in the margin of the paper sat the drawing of a little white cat with splotchy ears. She wasn't going to sympathize with Sylar, but that didn't mean she couldn't feel sorry for the little creature. '_A little creature who was never really alive, just an extension of his own self-torture_,' she reminded herself. Nonetheless, she felt real to him, so she felt real to Claire as well.

Picking up her pace, she skipped forward to catch up with her study group with the intent of discussing the date and time for their next meeting, anxious for the prospect of being able to compare her notes against someone who might've been less distracted during class. She overheard the last bits of their conversation before they hurriedly presented their backs and beat a hasty retreat, all three unsuccessfully attempting to pretend they didn't see her coming. They'd met two nights ago and hadn't told her. They were planning on meeting every Sunday. None of them were interested in sharing their extracurricular time with a circus freak who could break her own bones, like what she had was some sort of contagion that would spread like wildfire and eat souls or first born children, or whatever. She felt unincluded and forgotten, amazed that in a world ready for civil rights, women's liberty, and gay marriage that people could still be so bigoted, shying away from things they didn't understand, refusing to embrace diversity.

Scraping the shredded remains of her dignity off of the sidewalk, she resigned herself to another hour of textbook reading that would gratefully keep her from associating with the despicable outside world.

"They're just jealous, you know."

She jumped when the hand landed heavily on her shoulder, even though the familiar voice went a long way to soothe her frazzled nerves.

"Hey, daddy. You got my message."

"Of course I did, pumpkin. Indian for lunch?"

She turned and beamed up at him, leaning into his lingering embrace. Fathers had a special magic that fixed everything. _Everywhere_.

Yes, she was a circus freak. Yes, she could skydive without a parachute. Yes, studies performed on her tissue samples could go a long way toward curing all known diseases. And _yes_, she enjoyed goat meat. Sue her.

"That sounds so awesome – lead the way."

~*~*~

Sylar was jostled awake as the train began to slow to a stop, the high-pitched whine of the brakes dragging him out of his dreamy state of unconsciousness. If he'd flown he'd already be back in New York City, but the truth was he felt much happier in a crowded station, shoved around by rushing travelers, unable to think clearly through the raucous din of hundreds of voices, none of them happy… Nobody around him truly appreciated what they had. They had no idea what _quiet_ really was.

He had a laundry list of items he wanted to accomplish having started the road to recovery with Peter. He was unhappy with the way things had been mangled with Claire, however – he wished he could've been able to say what he'd planned, wished he knew how to _approach_ her, but all in all it could've gone worse. He'd never been all that great at dealing with women, outside of a few brilliant strokes of good luck, but she hadn't run away, she hadn't seemed afraid (although that could've been attributed to the fact that there was an element to the evening that had been _more_ frightening than him), and he'd been able to at least summarize what was on his mind. The ball was now in her court… unless he tried to press the issue. Which he might. Because that's what he did. Maybe that was a personality flaw. _Another_ one.

He shouldered his duffel a little higher, easing some of the strain the weight pulled across his neck, but remained where he was on the quay, having just stepped off of the train. He'd stood there many times when it was vacant. The place had been terrifyingly dark and his eyes kept convincing him he could see a spectral light at the end of the tunnel, one that never got any closer – just a creepy pinpoint in the quiet blackness. He hadn't called out for anyone, not like he had in the streets above – he had been afraid of what might answer. But in this world, the lights and the trains and the people were very real. _Blessedly_ real. He stood and let them mob around him, brushing his arms and knocking against his legs. It was precious touch; it was like a loving embrace.

When the balls of his feet began to complain he resigned himself to movement. He covered a crisscrossed, bi-colored distance of ancient tile to a stairwell leading up and out into grey daylight, a flurry of different languages, and the smell of hot dogs. He paused, however, when his hand hit the old brass railing. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden barrage of flashing images, fighting the nausea instigated by over-stimulated synapses. Around the corner… down the hall… in a shadowed alcove by the safety deposit boxes… He felt the wall trailing behind him under the light caress of his fingertips as he allowed his innate and irresistible curiosity to guide him to the source of a steadily intensifying commotion.

Silently he came to a stop, opening his eyes to survey the scene before him. In the corner of the little room, lined on all sides with lockers and interrupted by two benches that spanned across the middle, cowered an elderly couple being accosted by a young hooded individual with a small gun. Inexpensive and unimpressive, it could've been a water pistol, or a small enough caliber to only inflict mortal damage at a close range. One of them was likely to die of a heart attack first.

The initial reaction that leaked into his awakening system was sorrow. He used to be this guy, stealing enjoyment from causing suffering just as he'd suffered for so long, celebrating his liberation from cruelty by exacting his own grim vengeance on the world – he'd fought this demon before. The muscles in his back bunched with the urgent need to keep fighting it. There was a resounding '_thud_' as his bag hit the ground.

The assailant whipped around and, whether he'd meant to or not, inadvertently fired one shot, pegging deep into his left shoulder as the percussive decibel was drowned by a street musician who'd chosen that moment to blast his lungs into an antique trombone. The projectile didn't even have enough inertia to carry all the way through the flesh, lodging itself instead into the meat below his collarbone. He winced at the paltry yet searing force as pain radiated from the entry wound, already closing itself, forcing the foreign object to fall away, plunking to the ground where it rolled out of sight. He hated being shot… much the same way ordinary people hated bee stings. Minus the allergy.

He would've chuckled at the three matching gapes of astonishment if he hadn't been provoked into malevolence. Without warning the hoodlum was lifted through the air to slam against the adjacent row of lockers, his head knocking back hard with resounding '_clang_'. Sylar moved forward with a couple lazy, confident strides, his invisible lasso snatching the gun from where it landed on the floor. Maintaining a scathing tether of eye contact with the kid, he made the weapon hover between his deadly fingertips where it was reduced to a dripping stream of molten gunk. He gracefully stepped over the mess on his way to his trembling prey, glowering from beneath his heavy brow as his lip curled in a wicked, anticipatory grin. He pushed himself close enough to let his breath coat the boy's face, accentuating his point by raking his telekinetic claws through the delicious resistance of the surrounding metal. The cringing creak of stripped and punctured steel accompanied the long gashes that ripped toward the weeping, immobilized head, stopping just beneath the ear when the fool cried out. He'd clipped the tender cartilage, and he huffed with sinister satisfaction as he watched a crimson drop of blood drip from the pink swell of his earlobe.

"So… what is it, exactly, that you were trying to accomplish here?" he drawled, watching another drop twitch as it clung to his skin. "I mean, I'm just curious. Everybody knows old people aren't _rich_… so, what could they possibly have that you'd want this badly?"

He didn't receive an answer outside of some panicked whimpering. To be honest, given his past experience he didn't expect much more.

"Nothing worth talking about, hmm?" He leaned his head toward one shoulder as he turned his victim's chin, just enough to uncomfortably expose the throat. "Just out for trouble? Do you think you've found trouble _now_?" He emphasized the question with a quick jerk of his eyebrows, smiling like a fox sneaking into a chicken coop. Rescuing people was fun! The boy nodded his head rapidly. His eyes shone with helplessness. "Well, it's like this. I made a commitment a few years ago to turn my life around, so _this_ time I'm gonna let you live. And you fired a shot – I gotta applaud you, that took real balls. But the next time you wanna pick on someone less fortunate than you," he pressed close to the bloody ear to be sure he was heard properly, "I want you to be _real careful_ what you wish for. Got it?"

"Yes. Yes, I got it."

"_Good_."

Sylar backed away and presented his palms, open and placating, at the width of his shoulders. The hood dropped, his knees touching the ground only momentarily before he propelled himself forward, tearing near terminal velocity out of the enclosed space into the relative safety of the train station where he could disappear into ambiguity, leaving his crime behind him. He didn't part, however, without one final jab.

"_God hates freaks!!!_"

Oh yeah, what a great world he came back to, where religious nutjobs could hold up the elderly with handguns. When he turned toward the couple in question, however, the incident was very abruptly thrust into perfect clarity. The wife shied away from him, pulling herself into a tight ball against the hard corner while her husband stood in front of her, arms wide, ready to protect her in any way he could. He'd loved that old girl a long time and was going to fight for her, and judging by the look in his eyes he'd just shit his Depends. But that wasn't the interesting part. Behind him his wife was _glowing_ – quite literally, emanating effervescent vapors of iridescence. He pulled a long breath into his open mouth.

"You… You're like _me_…"

"We don't want any trouble," her husband spoke for her, adrenaline abusing his aged circulatory system, "we just wanna go home."

Sylar didn't hear anything else the man had to say, his voice fading away with the chorus of voices and whistles and music and screeching trains, only to be replaced by the sound of her swiftly pounding pulse. A smoky blur lined his periphery as his vision narrowed to her temple, a soft white curl above her left ear. What else could she do? What talents lie inside the circuitry of her brain, their secrets racing along her neural pathways in a language only he could understand? He pushed away the tiny voice calling to him from across a fathomless distance, insistently begging him for audience, telling him he didn't need to open her up to understand her… all he had to do was listen…

A younger couple entered the area, snapping him back to reality with the exuberant yap of the woman's laughter. He staggered back on his heels, horrified at where he'd been about to slip, suddenly dubious that his transformation had been legitimate.

"Go home," he gasped, "while you still can. _Go home_."

The older couple hastened as they packed up their meager belongings and scurried free toward their destination.

He was scared to death that his control could be so tenuous. If he couldn't master it, he'd need to be imprisoned, just as he had been. Or maybe he was better off _dead_. He couldn't do it by himself. He needed help. He sank to the bench behind his knees, shaking as the chemicals from his previous heightened state drained from him, and he tucked searching fingers into the pockets of his coat, one by one.

He froze with icy shock when he found them all to be quite empty.

He toppled forward to drag himself to his duffel, ignoring the reproachful looks from his younger visitors as they left, stumbling to get out of his way. He yanked back the zipper, frantically tossing the contents into careless piles around him in a vain attempt to find an object that he refused to believe was simply just not there. He choked on the scream building in his throat. Where could it be…? It could be anywhere… He _needed_ that journal, it was his _sanity_…

What was he going to do?

~*~*~

Peter may not have been a typical human being, but he _was_ a typical bachelor. He'd seen a lot of Emma since she'd discovered it was _okay_ that he'd impulsively destroyed the single greatest object of her affection, and in response to his change in relationship status he'd taken great strides to improve his living conditions. Especially since she was going to be _in_ them a lot more often. He'd splurged on two modest yet comfortable and attractive futons and a low coffee table that had a matching wood grain. He polished it off with a marble-filled vase and a couple silk lilies. His mother had graciously donated a luxurious plush rug out of his father's old study – it warmed the room nicely, along with two paintings Heidi had offered him out of Nathan's estate, one of which depicted a lonely pond that reminded him of camping trips he'd taken with his brother when they were rowdy teenagers. From there, he added the final touch by spicing the space with various flickering mood-inducing candles. Because his girlfriend was deaf, he imagined her to be a very visual person – he hoped she approved of his efforts. He… he was building a nest.

He stopped mid-step as he was picking up a dirty sock from the bedroom floor, on the way to the basket. He hoped he wasn't really jumping the gun by _also_ purchasing a sturdy frame to support the mattress that had previously rested on the floor… Karma had a way of working in terribly un-funny ways. He decided it was a very good idea to distract that whole train of thought by making his way into the bathroom where he lit another candle and neatly hung matching towels – plush navy blue ones to match the slightly nautical theme he was shooting for by artfully grouping some shells in the corner of the counter.

She would be over soon. She worried over the hours he kept, working long extra shifts, muttering something in her broken speech that he was burning the candle at both ends. She was going to make him his favorite dinner – lasagna, heavy on the ricotta. He was anxious to show her the ten new words he'd been practicing using sign language. She'd be so proud of him that she'd kiss him, and brush her fingers down his spine in a way that made him shiver with delight. Being deaf also made her a very tactile person. Peter could be described as always having been somewhat _tactile_ himself… Later they'd sip some a fine spirit by the fireplace and watch a rainbow kaleidoscope of swirling light while they listened to a little Ella Fitzgerald. He had it all planned out.

Wine was in the decanter, two hours early – check. All pots, pans, dishes, and utensils were not only _clean_ but put away – check. Wine glasses were placed in a pleasing display, glittering with the light of yet another candle – check. Fire extinguisher was easy to reach in case of candle-related incident – check. He was casually dressed but cleanly shaven and smelled decent – check. Everything was perfect.

Which meant it was bound to get screwed up.

He sent a text message to the phone he knew never left her hip, offering to pick her up so she didn't have to lug around a bunch of heavy grocery bags – he offered to do the shopping with her, and cover the charge – but she didn't answer. Scant seconds after he pressed the '_send_' button she knocked on his door. Making sure an alluring strand of hair swept down to cup one hazel eye, handsomely drawing attention to his obvious Mediterranean heritage, he leaned against the doorframe as he leisurely opened the door. His insides leapt with boundless joy at the smile that lit her face.

There would be romance by homemade red sauce that night. And what he'd hoped was a nice, medium-bodied merlot.

Fortunately, it wasn't until after the plates were soaking in the sink and a log was pleasantly toasting their outstretched toes when an emphatically distraught series of knocks shattered the atmosphere along with any hopes Peter had for a quiet, uneventful evening alone with the woman. Three feet from the door he heard the sound of his own name sobbed through a voice that still managed to fray his edges, despite the years of confinement they'd spend in each other's sole company. He'd heard a lot of unsavory, bloodcurdling things come from that voice in the past, but _this_ tone was new and unsettling, and probably meant nothing good.

Sylar stumbled inward past the open entrance and grasped him by his shoulders, transfixing him with wild eyes and gaunt, clammy cheeks. Reality, apparently, wasn't treating him so well. In a way, he was disappointed – a tiny sliver of old grief threatened to wedge its way into the fragile relationship they'd built, taunting him with the fear that things might revert to the way they used to be.

"Peter… I can't find it… I -"

He froze when he saw Emma. He'd clearly expected him _not_ to have company. Or, at least, not the kind of company that possessed a fiercely desired ability. He gave Peter a powerful shove as he flung himself backwards, slamming his back against the wall outside, landing on his fingertips when his knees crumpled. The situation was delicate, but Peter had to do something before it escalated beyond his control. Despite the man's intentions to repair the damage he'd done and wash the blood from his hands, he was still obviously battling a compulsory carnal instinct and was quite capable of wreaking a devastating swath of havoc. Peter wasn't entirely certain how to use Emma's ability to his advantage, but he was prepared to try.

"Dude… what's going on – talk to me."

A trickle of sweat slid down Sylar's forehead as he gazed wolfishly through thick, dark eyelashes at the blonde standing in the living room, tugging at her elbows nervously as she read their lips.

"I _can't_…" he whispered as he wrestled himself back to his feet. "Peter, I'll… I'll _kill_ her, I'll…" He pivoted and ran.

Peter whirled, lips working as he shrugged helplessly to his girlfriend while bouncing on indecisive feet.

"Go, Peter," she called, somehow managing to raise the volume of her voice to perfectly match the seriousness of the situation. Perhaps she could _see_ the pitch at which she'd need to speak. "He needs you. I'll be here."

He rushed down the stairs heedless of bodily injury – he needed to catch the reformed killer before he took to the sky. It could've been a matter of life and death for some poor unfortunate soul. He was dismayed, however, upon reaching the bottom of the stairwell and bursting through the foyer and out the door, to find absolutely no sign of the other man.

But then he remembered whose ability he had. While his list of talents didn't include anything remotely musical, his childhood had supplied him with a whole arsenal of bible hymns to from which to choose. He took a good look around, slightly embarrassed as he hummed a few bars before he started singing. Twisting, seeking tendrils of red and blue began to flow from the source of his siren song, uncompromising until they reached their goal. Incapable of denying them, it was only a matter of time before Sylar appeared, trudging down the long stretch of sidewalk with his eyes dancing through the air and his hands stuffed in his pockets, protecting them from a slight unseasonable chill. Peter let his music fall away while his target blinked against a fog of confusion. He grew stern when he realized where he was.

"Why did you bring me back here?"

"Because you didn't finish telling me what's wr-"

"Can't you see it's dangerous?!?"

"So's letting you waltz around out there like a loaded gun! Bringing you back here was the responsible thing to do – what would _you_ do if the roles were reversed?"

He solemnly nodded in response, mouth tightly shut against a biting, self-loathing remark. He sank back against the old bricks, downcast as he watched himself assault the pavement with the heel of one boot.

"Okay," Peter continued, "so, you're flipping out because you lost something – what is it?"

"It's not important."

"Obviously it _is_, if you're -"

"It's just really hard, okay?!?" Sylar rounded on him explosively. "I mean, in _there_, where we were… it was just _us_. It's like an alcoholic gets marooned on a desert island and suddenly he decides he can swear off booze… but now I'm back in the fucking liquor store! And people like us are public now… they're freakin' _everywhere_… and I've got my brain telling me to _do things_ and I don't know how much longer I can tell it no and I feel like I'm splitting in _half_… Peter, I can't do this alone…"

"Alright, alright, alright. Okay. Here, look. You didn't kill Doyle. That _counts_. So, why did you leave him alive?"

"Peter, seriously. Some people's brains are really ugly. I didn't want to see that."

"Okay, fair enough. Fine. But, you had _me_ for two years – why did you never attack _me_?"

This gave the man pause for thought. Or maybe it was because his reply was difficult to put to words, requiring a leap of faith that petrified him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Because," he started as he turned away, testosterone gluing his eyes to the tree branches across the street, watching as the breeze combed them across a canvas of glittering stars, "regardless of who I am to you, you're the closest thing I have to a friend."

Peter knew how risky it had been to admit that, so he didn't allow an awkward silence the opportunity to creep into the conversation.

"Alright, there you go. Emma likes you. You saved her life, and through her thousands of others. She's a _big fan -_"

"So -"

"_SO _come back inside, have some lasagna and a glass of wine, and talk. Let her be your friend."

"I _scared_ her Peter."

He tried not to laugh. He bit his lip and held his breath. He failed.

"Dude… you're so much scarier than _this_."

"_She_ doesn't know that, and you're putting her life at risk. Isn't that kind of a shithead thing to do to your _girlfriend_?!?"

"I'm not putting _anybody's _girlfriend at risk. I really, truly believe you're not going to kill that woman. Look at you, listen to what you're saying – you _obviously_ don't want to."

"No… no I don't…"

"So you _won't_. So come back inside. We'll all just relax for a bit and calm down, it'll be okay."

"I don't want to intrude…" He was plainly still skeptical. In all honesty, Peter was also smart enough to entertain at least a healthy amount of doubt, but he wasn't going to patronize Emma like she couldn't take care of herself.

"Uhh, yeah… it's a bit too late for that. But I'm _glad_ you did – it's better than the alternative."

"I don't know how to thank you Peter… seriously, I'd be so lost..." He'd made the right decision going there.

"It's alright. And you can start by not killing my girlfriend."


	3. Habitation

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks... for reasons unknown, wouldn't let me post this chapter for several days for what I can only assume were technical difficulties, seeing as how their support never got back to me... So, anyhoo... Wheee Ch3! Anyone here like Sylar!Angst? This chapter is for you! Anyone here miss Mohinder? This chapter is also for you! Anyone been hoping for confirmation that Claire and Gretchen do NOT share the same sexual preference (not that there's anything wrong with it)? Look no further! All of that and a bag of Pemma chips! Oh, and Sylar made muffins!  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**3) Habitation**

*** _Day 43 in Hell_ ***

He bagged his own groceries, finding he was able to fit everything he needed snugly into one large paper sack. Sylar perched himself on the counter by the profitless cash register and swung his long legs, banging his heels with no one to annoy but himself, snacking on a Hershey's that would just reanimate itself the next day, chugging a gallon of two percent straight from the carton. If he were thirteen and a virgin this would've been a dream come true.

But he was neither of these things. Although that didn't exactly keep him from fondling the cantaloupes.

He was anxious, horny, and irritated, watching the front door like he was grieving the loss of a loved one, still expecting to see a smiling face just come waltzing right on through. Yet every day was a new level of disappointment. And nothing ever collected dust. It was becoming less and less like the general populace had simply been absconded, and more like they were all present and accounted for but just _hiding_ from him.

He hated being mocked as much as he hated being shot.

He was reminded of Missy Banks, a girl that went to his school. When her grandmother passed away, her father had inherited a lavish antique table clock, one in which he'd been interested in having serviced and appraised. Missy had been with her dad during his visit to the shop and had shown a genuine curiosity toward a colorful travel chess set he'd carried around a lot during those days. While her father and his grandfather discussed business, he'd shown her how to play and she'd learned quickly – not quite as quickly as he (he'd always been a startlingly fast study), but enough to leave an impression (although she was pretty enough to have already left a burgeoning ache in his chest). Even though he'd won both games they'd played, she'd presented enough of a challenge to make the dull game seem like more like a sport. Of course, it was a lot more fun when he wasn't playing by _himself_. He could still hear the crystal harmony of their twinned laughter braiding through the air.

But girls were fickle things and he was an awkward boy, and the two made poor companions. Misunderstanding drowned him in insurmountable odds – it was difficult to relate to someone who'd experienced overwhelming trauma at such a tender age, or someone whose boggling intellect bordered on the inhuman. He'd lived on the fringes long before he pushed himself further beyond with his violent need for retribution.

He'd made the sophomoric mistake of seeking her out after school. He'd wanted to invite her to stay for dinner when her father came to pick up the clock. And to her credit, when she turned after he'd tapped her shoulder the smile she bestowed him was perfectly amiable and sincere… but the friends who'd flanked her had other ideas about who should receive her lofty affection. They made it abundantly clear through their series of snorts and giggles that such ideas certainly did _not_ include _him_. The instant her eyes slipped to her toes his insides grew hard and cold, and he shut everything off.

He never turned it back on again… except for maybe Elle, and that hadn't turned out any better.

Missy didn't return with her father. And he never saw much more of her after that except for the back of her head of caramel curls, bouncing away in retreat. In order to prevent any recurrence of a situation that could only be described as stressful… she _hid_ from him.

And since this world was born of his own masochistic fantasy, he imagined everyone else was doing exactly the same thing.

Graduating to an agitated stated of pissed off, he launched the plastic container in his hands at the sliding glass doors, spewing a fountain of frothy white liquid to slop all over the floor. The entryway activated a few seconds too late at the sudden motion, allowing the growing puddle to escape into the outside world. Breathing hard, he furrowed his brow with determination. If he came back tomorrow, the mess would be gone. So, he was going to stay put until the mysterious custodian came to clean it up. For good measure, he ripped into his grocery bag and decorated the flat tiles with shredded pieces of celery, gooey chicken breast, an overturned box of rice cereal, orange juice, and more. He dotted the ceiling with broken eggs. Cheeks flushed and blood pumping as a result of the tantrum, he crossed his arms tightly over his chest and settled in for the duration.

Several hours later, rubbing his eyes against light that was fading as fast as his dedication, he felt like he was watching a pot of water, waiting for it to boil. His bladder, not appreciating the metaphor, had decided it'd had enough and wasn't going to wait any longer, twinging a bit more insistently, causing him to hop from his perch at last and begrudgingly plod toward the back. He returned from the restroom as quickly as he could, but stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he reached the registers. Both hands raked slowly through his hair. He was going to lose his mind.

Everything was gone. It was like he'd never been there.

"Fuck you…" he breathed to the spirits he knew were watching him – heads together, hands cupped against ears, whispering jabs of amusement at his expense. "Fuck _all_ of you… I don't need you…" None of those assholes knew him, knew what he grew up to be – something so vicious and formidable… awe-inspiring… They just ditched him, content to ostracize him in his banishment, out of pure spite. He was _going_ to get their attention. He picked up a red plastic basket by its swinging metal handle.

"Think you're so great, huh?!? Think that was a nice trick?!? Well, try _this_!!!"

He swung the object like a baseball bat at everything in his path. He sent candy bars, magazines, and packs of gum sailing through the air. Columns of canned goods collapsed with a deafening crash to roll unbidden throughout the premises. Fruit and vegetable pulp sprayed all available surfaces. The frozen food aisles were littered with broken glass and boxes. Dairy goods splattered the strewn meats and cheeses. He made a terrible, ungodly mess. When he was done, he crumpled against the floor-length windows that lined the front of the store and gulped his own breath, cradling his knees, the tentative calm only interrupted by the wet sound of persistent dripping.

"Well," he sneered sarcastically as he eventually stood and brushed himself off, "have fun cleaning _that_ up." Empty handed, he left and vowed never to go back. He'd take his business elsewhere.

Hunched against the chill of yet another grey and yellow sunset, a false dark imposed upon by tall buildings, he let his feet carry him anywhere. He had _wanted_ to be a monster, had seen no need in denying the adamant hunger of his unnatural ability, and _he'd_ been the one who'd done the hiding, letting his ferocious mask of bitter hatred conceal a timid and vulnerable throbbing heart capable of an amazing amount of love. He knew this whole nightmare would probably disappear if he could find it again… but he wasn't ready to start looking. He was still angry.

He missed his mother and everything he couldn't remember about her, gaps his imagination filled with colorful images of warmth and safety. At times he missed Virginia despite her rigidly pious and imperialistic nature – her insatiability had driven him to be a better man. He was already growing weary of this foggy, addling state of limbo, compelling him to walk with no sense of direction and no requisite destination. He was no good as a nomad. Some people were sane enough to act as their own anchor – he wasn't one of those people. He wanted to go home. He didn't _have_ one. He had no idea how to _make_ one.

He continued forward into the deepening night, marveling over how the streetlights would still pop on, dictated by their own magic schedule, for only one person. And, certainly, a contingent of feral animals that evaded him as easily and predictably as Headphones did. He stopped when a creaking noise reacted to the low breeze, capturing his attention. Looking up and over his left shoulder he could barely make out the writing on the sign, embossed in aged, eroded relief, paint curling away from the cracked wood paneling. And yet, he'd know it anywhere.

'_Grey & Sons'_

He paused on the threshold, caught between walking away and stepping inside, facing every ghost the laden tomb had to offer: every biting punishment waited for him in there, every tear-soaked disappointment, every red-faced humiliation. Missy Banks and her treacherous smile resided at the kitchen table, along with Virginia's spectacular spaghetti and her fearsome Bible. The scent of his grandfather's grease, bearings, and tools wrapped him up and carried him to the memory of the bathroom where Virginia caught him masturbating for the first time. His hands still stung. Mentally he turned to face his own bedroom, complete with stacks of books and hanging models, a secretive stash of vinyl albums he jealously hid – all glimpses of an outside world he was too afraid to reach out and find. It was his original fortress of solitude. How fitting he should find it _now_.

The door, at first, wouldn't budge. He put his shoulder into it. He was astonished to discover, after a month and a half spent in a surreal world of inexplicable and endlessly eternal cleanliness, that the interior was adrift in a sea of musty grime. Standing very still with his hand over his mouth until the cloud settled down, the next thing that arrested his thought was the fact that something was missing. Something paramount, making the instinctually familiar abode seem frighteningly alien.

The _ticking._ Nothing was _ticking_. The quiet was eerily unsettling. Like a cemetery at night.

He followed the spooky stillness through the shop and into the shadowy, uninhabited apartment upstairs, thankful the tactile ability to be invaded by information from his physical surroundings had been removed from his possession. He flipped on the light and jumped as three mice pulled a Headphones and bolted for their lives, not quite expecting to be thrust into such a blinding brilliance. He added mousetraps to the list of groceries he still needed to bring… where…? _Home_? Here, to _this_ place?

Not brave enough to peek into the refrigerator, he veered away from the kitchen and moved into the living room. The hunched and moth-eaten forms of a chair and a sofa held their ground like old relatives chastising him for coming home so late. He ignored them, staring wistfully instead at the wall of dusty glass domes, a prized and cherished collection that had taken so much effort to build only to have been left behind, falling into this state of regrettable detriment: Virginia's snowglobes.

The whole place – every inch of the premises – was a testament, like a plaque or a headstone, to a person he used to be and could never be again. Which was only proper considering the _sole reason_ he was there was because he could no longer be the person he currently was, either. Perhaps, subconsciously, he was telling himself that the only way he could move forward was to step into the past. Accepting this, he backed away and headed down the hall.

He left the lights off, letting the wan golden street light and his own muscle memory guide him, praying he didn't step on a soft squeaking little body or something else gross and crunchy. He was also a little worried about spiders, but it wasn't worth another jagged barrage of memory. He never made it to his old room. He entered Virginia's instead.

Suddenly exhausted, he knelt onto the old, loudly protesting mattress, stretching out to sink his cheek into her pillow. Even through the sticky, powdery, sneeze-inducing fuzz of time he could still smell her – like chamomile and peppermint with a hint of fresh flowers. And something inside him snapped. Before that moment he could still imagine the whole experience – this whole desert world – was just a conjured nightmare. But even leaving sight behind, his sense of smell still betrayed him, weaving a soft, nostalgic spell designed to reach up and claim his entirety. Everything there was real, he was never going to escape it, and his mother was never coming home. Like a levee ineffective against the mighty swell of a river, he broke. _This_ time, bedcovers clutched in his fists with his knees pulled against his quaking belly… he cried.

~*~*~

Claire eyeballed his last few sentences carefully. The paper had been warped by some sort of weird damage and the ink smudged, making his already peevishly flamboyant handwriting even harder to read, what with all the capital letters where they shouldn't be and all… She'd slipped the book onto the table and scanned a few pages while her dad had stepped toward the men's room to take another private phone call he'd tell her nothing about.

She pensively chewed on a piece of naan bread while watching the restaurant's busy wait staff – people who had no further troubles outside of making sure the buffet perpetually had hot, fresh food and that the patrons' glasses were always full. None of them were shunned by their peers for having been born with a taboo and arcane ability, none of them lived a life awash with bloody secrets, and none of them had ever fallen victim to a violent sexual assault as a direct result of such a deplorable heritage. At least she didn't _think_ so. They just came to work and made really good curry and bread – and those awesome little syrupy-coated pastry puffs – then went home to their families and did whatever Indian people liked to do at night.

As if she was a mind-reader (which really would've poked a serious hole in her moment of self-pity), their dark, slender waitress tossed her thick raven braid over her shoulder and approached with a sweating pitcher of water, smiling as she topped off the glass just enough to let one golden wedge of lemon slide between the ice cubes. Before moving off to continue her appointed rounds, two drops of condensation landed on the napkin next to Claire's plate. Captivated, Claire watched the way they warped the paper… then glanced back at the open journal.

She knew what had caused the damage.

Her finger was halted on its way to trace the blurred outline of the teardrop when her father noisily slid his phone shut and sat back down. She struggled not to drop the book as she stuffed it back into her bag when Noah Bennet began to speak.

"_That_ was Angela Petrelli. You'd never believe what she asked of me." He… he was going to tell her about his phone call…? She almost felt faint… "She wants me to work for her again."

"Uhh, yeah… because that worked out so great _last_ time…"

"Well, honey, her intentions aren't exactly to blow up New York, and I don't think she wants to send us chasing after dangerous specials either -"

"_Us?_"

"Take a look at these," he continued without answering her question. He obtained a small wallet from inside his jacket pocket. Withdrawing its contents, he spread them out over the tabletop, steering clear of anything containing uneaten food. Naturally, they were newspaper clippings. Claire smoothed her hands over the flimsy grey surface of the first, pressing the folded wrinkles away to make it easier to read. The article gave a detailed account of a house fire in Boston – all but two had been able to escape. The next spun a chilling tale about a drive-by shooting in San Diego, slaughtering a family of five. Yet another was from St. Louis, where several bodies had been located in an abandoned warehouse by the river, all reported to have been carved in a very grisly manner depicting what appeared to be occult human sacrifice rituals. He had several more, but she didn't have the stomach to continue.

"What's this all about? I don't understand…"

"All of these stories have one thing in common: the victims were specials. People with abilities."

And suddenly everything made sense.

"She wants you to _protect_ people like me." No wonder he didn't feel so bad about sharing _this_ phone call. Although she was sure the was a catch… _somewhere_. Her grandmother operating without one was like a car driving on a donut – sure the thing would go, but she didn't put a whole lot of faith in it.

"There's a gentleman named Neil Culbertson – he's the leading spokesperson for an emerging group of folks who call themselves the 'Preservists.' On the surface, he's a family man who wants what everyone else wants, but underneath there's no mistaking – they're an extremist supremacy group."

"Of course they are."

"The guy's got a lot of charisma, though, and so far people in high places really seem to like him, which is potentially dangerous. Your grandmother hopes to oppose him. She's got Tracy Strauss helping her work up grant paperwork. If they get approved, she plans to purchase some land up-state from her and set up a refuge for people like the Billingslys from Boston, who are now _homeless_ victims of a hate crime."

"So what does she want _you_ to do?"

"Very simple. _Investigate_." _And deliver retaliation_, Claire didn't need him to say it. "And I'm pretty sure she also wants Lauren and I involved as a public statement to show how well your kind and my kind can get along."

Which meant it was only a matter of time before Claire, herself, was thrust even more into the spotlight.

"Lauren too, huh?"

"Well, yes -"

"And, given your history, you're just gonna suddenly be okaaaaay with _protecting _specials…?"

"Claire. Honey. I've been protecting a special, as you so succinctly put it, for almost nineteen years… I'd like to think I've got a little _experience_, as well as proper motivation."

"But I'm the one who put you in this situation. I thought you weren't exactly comfortable with it."

He paused to take a drink and push his remaining sauce around with an absorbent round of naan.

"I'm just worried for you, pumpkin. And no," he presented his palms in surrender, "I'm not referring to your physical well being, not this time. I'm talking about your quality of life." Claire felt her stomach turn as she was reminded of the reason why she'd needed to talk to her father in the first place. "Besides, my pension's running a bit thin, and a paycheck is a paycheck, right?"

"Right. And I think you should do it, dad – it would make me happy if it made you happy, just be careful. Nothing is ever what it seems with that woman."

"Claire-bear, I hope you don't think I wasn't quite aware…" He chuckled at her fledgling attempt at sage wisdom.

"There's something else I need to talk to you about, though dad…"

"I know," he dabbed his lips with his napkin, "your mom called me earlier today."

Of course she did. Damn. Which meant he knew –

"I also heard about your unlikely _rescue_. Honey, I know you're gonna say no, but I want you to come stay with me for a while, even if it's just for the rest of this week – you don't know if those guys're the kind that are gonna hold a grudge… And I've seen the police report." She knew better than to believe for one second that he hadn't_. _"I'm not exactly confident we're gonna see a whole lot of justice here. And I just want to be sure you're _okay_."

She prodded her fork through a pile of okra that had looked so good until she lost her appetite. She knew Noah Bennet, and the tiny print between his lines – he already knew not only _who_ her attackers were, but where they lived, what their parents did, what they'd named their first pets, had their social security numbers memorized, and had their funerals meticulously planned. All he was waiting for was _permission_. And yet, she didn't think she could survive another sleepless night. A little father-daughter time would also go a long way toward cementing what was still a somewhat fractured relationship. Just this once, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let him baby his little girl.

"Dad, I think they're too scared of _Sylar_ to make any kind of repeat performance… but I really wouldn't mind getting away for a little while… get my head together." A little blushing piece of her swelled at the smile that he failed to keep from blooming all over his face. "Gretchen and I are going to mom's for the weekend, but maybe, yeah… I could warm your spare room. Can Gretch come too?"

"Of course honey," he replied, beaming as he signaled the waitress for the check, "Gretch is always welcome."

~*~*~

*** _Madras, India_ ***

It was another balmy Sunday evening, and Mira cleared the table completely unnoticed by the other two denizens of the household who were both crowding the empty dishes with papers and books and open laptops. She smiled at the similarity that had managed to bind the two despite the lack of any genetic connection: they both were renowned procrastinators. But while Molly often put off her schoolwork simply because she was a pre-teen, Mohinder put off grading papers for the pursuit of extra-curricular interests that he still allowed to distract him no matter how many promises he made to the contrary. In the end, Mira had given up. It was in his blood and it was a huge part of what made him so strangely brilliant, if not a touch eccentric. She reconciled it with her attraction to him.

Because they were unmarried and it was a culturally unacceptable practice for them to live together (her association with the scientist had always been a somewhat raw spot within her family), she did him the favor of washing his dishes before administering him a healthy dose of kisses, gathering her things, thanking Molly for her delightful company during dinner, and heading to her own apartment.

"You should marry her," Molly muttered after the woman had gone, her nose inching closer to her screen, squinting as she painstakingly proofread her essay. "Then she could just stay and not have to drive across town."

"I should _marry_ her. _Just_ so she doesn't have to drive across town."

"Yup."

_Kids. _He set down his inkpen and turned in his seat.

"Molly, in this country, it's not so simple, we need –"

He was interrupted by a soft yet determined knock on the door. Thinking it might be Mira again perhaps having forgotten something, and wondering why she wouldn't just enter, Mohinder rose and crossed to the front room to answer the percussive summons. He elicited an audible gasp upon opening the entryway.

"_You_…" Molly heard him hiss from out of sight, his exclamation snaring her attention. "You're… alive? How on earth did you find us…?"

A shot of icy dread jerked through her straightened spine when she heard the visitor's deadpan reply.

"I spent a little time inside of Matt Parkman's head."

She _knew_ what that usually meant with the man. She stumbled out of her chair, ready to creep toward the back door, grimacing as the noise she made alerted their intruder to her presence, but she froze when one of the men began to thrash and choke, drumming the floor with flailing heels. She yelped and jumped at the loud '_thud_' of a body colliding with the floor at the incredible sort of speed only matched by someone possessing super-human strength. Miraculously, Mohinder had gotten to him first.

"Molly! Call the police!!!"

She would've laughed at him if Sylar hadn't first. She wasn't going to laugh _with_ him, regardless of how hysterically useless the police would be in this situation. She grabbed her cell phone from her backpack and, against her better judgment, slid into the front room. Her foster guardian had the bastard pinned to the floor, but kept one mighty fist held high over his head. Sylar bartered for his release with placating speech.

"I didn't come here for trouble, I just wanna –"

Mohinder brought down his arm with an awesome blow, crashing into the man's face like a battering ram. His jaw shattered so badly that part of it separated from his skull, the slick ball of the joint glistening in the low lamplight. All coherent thought evaporated from Molly's mind, and the phone dangled loosely from her fingertips. There was so much blood… and _teeth_… all she could do was scream. Sylar howled and sputtered, tongue ineffectually lapping against the roof of a ruined mouth.

"Urr… _thkaring_ her!"

Mohinder brought his elbow back again and growled incredulously.

"Oh, you really think so? Molly – am I scaring you? Or are you scared of _him_?"

She'd never seen this sort of wild-eyed mania in Mohinder before, and admittedly yes, he frightened her. However, about to be pulverized a second time on her living room floor was the man who'd made her an orphan while she listened to her parents' dying screams from the other side of a paltry, thin closet door. She could still hear him mercilessly spelling out his ruthless intentions while he'd slain them, could hear him every night, rolling through her head before she slept. She could still visualize the fleeting glimpse at the gruesome carnage decorating her living room as Matt Parkman swept her from the house, leaving her room, her bed, her belongings, her _whole life_ behind forever without being able to say goodbye. She wasn't sure her stomach could handle it, but her heart wouldn't have minded one bit seeing the man get struck one more time by Mohinder's formidable brawn. She swallowed thickly and pointed toward her parents' murderer. Mohinder shrugged as if to say '_oh well, you lose_' and made to throw another strike, but the punch never landed as his body was yanked from the ground and slammed in place against the far wall. Sylar had had enough. Molly found herself to be as equally and terrifyingly immobilized as well.

"Just so you're both aware," he glared pointedly at Mohinder, gingerly rubbing the chin that had finally healed itself back into place, "what I'm doing to you is called '_self-defense_'… Like I was trying to say, I'm not here for trouble, I'm not going to hurt _anyone_. I just want to _talk_." He turned to Molly. "To _you_. And I'm not even going to come any closer, see?" He planted his butt in the middle of the living room floor and folded his legs, Indian-style.

"She's got nothing to say to y–"

"You can shut up, or I can _make_ you."

A tense silence pressed against her ears as the monster stared at her, and she couldn't pull her eyes away. He was as captivating as a train wreck.

"I've had a lot of time to think lately," he began, a tired and plaguing wisdom infecting his glassy, mahogany expression, "and I've come to a conclusion. You and I have this one fundamental thing in common. We've both watched our parents die. And in the same way, too… except I killed your parents and my dad killed mine, but you know what I mean. And that's kind of ironic, really, if you think about it… But anyway, I came here because I wanted you to _know_ something. When I did what I did to you… it was a reaction to _pain_. And it never entered my mind – not for one _instant_ – that I was _causing_ the same pain I was trying to get rid of. I mean, the world had just treated me like _absolute dogshit_ for so long that I really didn't care about it anymore, right? But I _know_ now, Molly. I _know_ what I did to you. I _know_ how I hurt you because I hurt the same way. And I don't expect that it'll mean anything to you, but I came to tell you I'm sorry."

He showed her both hands in a supplicating gesture intended to convey that his next movement was going to remain completely harmless, and then he tucked one set of fingers inside the pocket of his jacket to withdraw a small box which he placed in mid-air where it hovered as if it were set on an invisible table. It floated on a slow, unhindered trajectory until it reached her, where she could stretch out an arm and touch it. Inside was what she'd initially thought to be a dainty, delicate silver locket… until she scarcely began make out its faint ticking over her heart's ferocious palpitations. She opened the lid to find a little clock face inlaid in mother of pearl, and on the opposite side, engraved into gleaming metal, was a short message: '_Time is the mender of all wounds – In Loving Memory, James and Rebecca Walker_'. The thing was precious yet sturdy, its craftsmanship obviously performed by a skilled and experienced hand.

"I don't expect you to ever forgive me, and I would ask that you don't. And to be honest, I'm sure you'll take that thing outside and smash it with a heavy rock as soon as I'm gone. And that's _fine_. But if you keep it, I just want it to remind you _not_ to carry around pain as I have. Keep love in your life. And should anything happen to Matt or Mohinder," he shifted his gaze to the latter, eyeing him purposefully, "it's important to note that I'm not saying anything _will_, just _if_ something should happen, I want you to know that you can call _me_. My number's inside the lid of the box. I welcome the opportunity to make up my debt to you – I'd do _anything_ for you. All you have to do is ask. And that's all I came here for."

She couldn't suppress the wicked thought as it crept into her head, watching the man rise to his feet and brush off his pants, picking lightly at a spot of blood that had already soaked into the fabric. '_You wanna do something for me? Go kill yourself._' She would've said it, too, if she could've gotten her throat to work, but the bizarreness of the situation still held her stunned and mute. All she could do was nod and hope that he'd leave. He mimicked her solemn response.

"Now," he said as he faced his adversary still pinned against the wall, "if I can trust that you won't liquefy my organs the instant I let you go… I'll release you."

After a few passing moments of angry but quiet truce, Mohinder's feet touched the carpet. Sylar backed himself to the door and departed, leaving behind two shaken and extremely confused individuals… and one very pretty ladies' pocketwatch.

~*~*~

Peter came home late to a dark and unexpectedly empty apartment – one that smelled surprisingly like… was that banana bread…? He flipped on the light and was nearly blinded by the waxy disinfected shine of every visible surface: the floor, the countertops in the kitchen, the entertainment center, the tables… _everything_. He'd straightened up the day before in preparation for his dinner date with Emma, but this… _this_ was the handiwork of the certifiably obsessive/compulsive. He knew only one person who had access to the premises within the past twenty-four hours who fit _that_ description. And of all the things he'd anticipated from having Sylar as a new roommate, a peculiar cleanliness that bordered on phobia wasn't one of them. Nor was his unexplained absence.

Hanging his keys on the hook inside the doorway, he recalled the events that had taken place the previous evening. Emma, having no prior knowledge of what crimes Sylar had committed or of what he was truly capable, had astutely picked up on the potential hostile energy of the situation and tastefully excused herself to use the restroom while he'd practically dragged the miscreant kicking and screaming back into the house. Sylar had calmed considerably, however, after half of a rather large bottle of Tequila and a heaping plate of Emma's leftover lasagna with extra ricotta. But he wasn't stupid. He knew the woman was only puttering around in the kitchen, essentially keeping a safe distance, because he'd scared her. Peter had watched stiffly from the living room, prepared to react, as the man took his plate to the sink and engaged the nervous yet steadfast woman in apologetic conversation.

Peter didn't know what to say to his girlfriend about his new roommate. He'd offered Sylar the use of the spare room in spite of his insistent assurances that '_home_' in '_his city_' was '_wherever his feet took him_' – he'd known for the entire two years they'd spent alone together that the man was a living oxymoron: a lost soul who hated wandering. He had nowhere to go, and anything else was a lie. And when it came to Emma, there was a fine line drawn between preconceived notions and complete honesty – he felt it might've been oddly beneficial that he hadn't had much time to truly explain to her just who, exactly, this Sylar guy was… other than some '_friend_' who had come to her rescue once. Sylar had been correct in his assessment – while Peter was probably the closest thing he had to a friend… he wasn't prepared to label him the same way in return, even though the burning hatred he'd once held toward him had begun to flake away like a crumbling, desiccating husk. Their emergent relationship was in a state of metamorphosis, testing a new skin as it grew to shed the old. It still had a little more stretching to do before it pulled free, and the process was a slow, exploratory one. He supposed Sylar had the right to divulge the harrowing secrets of his unsavory past on his own terms.

He never made it to the sink, but had instead planted his feet firmly by the counter, unwilling to take any wrong step that might send the girl fitfully fleeing for her life, taking with her the last vestiges of his confidence. Briefly, Peter wondered if this was how liontamers felt all the time – forcing a constant vigilant calm while watching for signs of a possible attack. He counted each individual bead of sweat that had broken on the reformed killer's brow as he set down the plate and grasped the cool stability of the marble, making a sincere effort to clamp down with a vice-like control on the wanton lust for ghastly, bloodthirsty discovery that tugged incessantly against his every good intention. With slow, deliberate words he stood his ground, doggedly waging his internal battle and assuaging her masterfully hidden mortal fear as he explained that some abilities came with… _adverse_ side effects, ones that sometimes hurt people… but he'd been working very hard to put an end to it, he wasn't going to let her come to harm, he was just… having a bad night.

"But you _have_ hurt people," she'd asked him.

A heavy shame pulled his eyelids shut for a moment before he reluctantly told her, "Yes." In his own defense, he added, "But it was a long time ago."

Satisfied with his honesty, Peter watched as a transformation took place within the woman. When Emma had been denied re-entry into the medical program she'd abortively left earlier in her life, something inside her had ignited – the file clerk had fallen away and the warrior had awakened. After a long conversation with Peter one night over sushi she'd decided to file applications with other schools after they'd agreed it was a common practice in medicine to obtain a '_second opinion_'. Sanford-Brown and Mount Sinai had both denied her, but NYU opened trusting, welcoming arms. She'd caught his attention in the ER the day she'd received her acceptance letter, marching triumphantly down the hallway with the paper trophy still clutched tightly in her trembling fist. She'd shoved it into his face, brandishing it with a glory that radiated from the very pores of her skin, and when he saw it he knew at last the kind of woman she was. She was _fearless_.

He saw it again in his kitchen that night. She'd known what Sylar had said earlier, buckled over in a pile outside the doorway before he'd run away in blind panic – she could read lips like most people could read subtle facial expressions. He'd clearly told Peter he'd kill her. Undaunted, she swallowed away her unease and charged forward toward the boogeyman, placing the physician in her ahead of her terror like any good doctor. Before Sylar could back away in startled reaction, she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. He remained rooted to the spot, dazed with shock at such a brazen act. She let her slim fingers guide her down and across to each cheek where they paused momentarily. A stranger to such a nurturing affection, he dropped his chin, mesmerized as he leaned infinitesimally toward the brief contact, exhaling his disappointment when it was over.

"Give me your wrist," she directed. He was helpless not to obey her commanding tone. She lightly held two fingertips at his pressure point, allowing a few seconds to check his pulse. "You're warm and your heart is racing. This kind of stress is bad for someone who is already fighting his ability," she parsed in her strange muted sibilants, "_especially_ after you let him feed you so much tequila." She spared Peter a disdainful glance. "One meal is not enough – you need rest. Here." She dug into her purse on the counter, procuring a sample pack with a small white pill secured to the front with blister plastic. "It's a mild sedative – I take them sometimes when my head hurts. They're not good to mix with alcohol – take only one."

Accepting the peace offering, transfixed by her brave kindness, he demurely replied, "Emma… I can't die… and I don't get sick…"

"That's no reason to take your body for granted." Spoken like a true physician. "I think you're in this mess because you haven't had anyone to take care of you until now."

And that's when she had him – wrapped him around her little finger like spun cotton candy. If he had anything to say about it, until the day she died nothing would ever touch a hair on the top of that woman's head. His only response was to nod dumbly to her, lips parted, overcome by the bond she'd forged between them… and maybe something a little more.

Peter distinctly remembered at that point hearing a fire truck scream underneath the balcony outside followed by a raucous contingent of emergency vehicles, responding to an urgent call somewhere in the distance. Feeling the coiled muscles of his shoulders and back begin to relax as the tension seeped out of their immediate atmosphere, he allowed the momentary distraction and followed the trailing, serpentine ribbons of color streaming across the ceiling. He locked eyes with Emma and smiled at the shared experience… until simultaneously they noticed Sylar's eyebrows knit together in wondrous amazement as he gawked at the same spot above their heads.

"You… can see it too?"

He rubbed his eyes for a second, a little too tired to comprehend.

"I, uh… I think I'm going to bed." He popped the pill out of its packaging, swallowed it without water, then disappeared down the hallway. When the long, weary evening had drawn to a close, Peter'd kissed Emma as he tucked her securely into her vehicle and apologized for the interruption.

"He is misplaced," she'd told him, confusing him with the odd yet accurate description. "He needs a good home and some TLC. He's lucky he has you. And so am I." Ageless starlight reflected in her soft, misty eyes as she combed her fingers through the strand of hair he'd been dying for her to stroke all night. A thin line of restraint kept him from begging her to spend the night, but he did allow his lips to plant themselves into the pit of her palm, sliding a tiny distance down her wrist as she grazed him behind his ear. "You're such a good man and I'm proud to be in your life." He rewarded her with one last deep, fiery kiss before she bid him goodnight. He'd savored the taste of her lingering on his mouth long after he'd climbed the stairs back into his apartment and crept into bed.

Sylar was still asleep when Peter left earlier that morning to meet his mother for a light brunch. As he'd tiptoed past the door left boyishly ajar, he'd heard him softly snoring, passed out across the temporary inflatable mattress, and he'd felt strangely content with how the situation had turned out. Sylar was contained – not by a lonely glass jail or an endless mental wasteland, but by a warm human connection with a touch of blind faith – no longer an unknown entity wandering the streets inflicting God knew what kind of damage on the unsuspecting masses. Which was why he was now so perplexed to find him inexplicably missing, although a quick snoop into the room told him the man's duffel still remained where it'd been dropped.

After a quick shower, Peter returned to the kitchen with the intention of fixing a light dinner, and saw he'd left his phone sitting on the counter. Noah Bennet had called. Waking up the display and ready to hit the redial button in his call log, he paused as an object, out of place, caught his notice – like a small, plastic-covered mound taking up an intentionally obvious space on the expansive countertop. Flipping on the light revealed the identity of the mysterious item: a plate of muffins. Further inspection determined them to be banana chocolate chip.

So, to summarize things for himself, Sylar was now sharing his apartment, had sanitized the entire premises _military_-style, had made friends with his girlfriend, and… had baked him… wow, really freakin' good muffins, and was now missing.

And one final question still remained: how was he going to explain this to his mom…?

~*~*~

Claire and Gretchen both halted in the doorway, coming to the same observation, while Noah hustled inside and off toward the spare room completely oblivious, muttering something about making themselves at home and grabbing sheets for the spare bed. They looked around with wide, sweeping arcs then looked back at each other. The blinds were still on the window, but they'd been dusted and dressed up with a sheer set of drapes matched by another type of hanging fabric and some greenery. The couch and chair now held boldly colored throw pillows, and a cheerful verdant ficus tree was thriving in the corner by the patio. The adjoining modest kitchen was… was that actual _food_ in the pantry? And the only thing that smelled even remotely burnt was the pleasant vanilla candle flickering happily on the kitchen table next to a vase of smiling daisies and a handsome bottle of oil, corked and flavored with olives and whole sprigs of decorative spices.

It was plain to see that Claire was _not_ the first woman to set up shop in her father's apartment. And while there was a part of her – the one that was eager to step into adulthood unencumbered and stop worrying about his welfare – that was happy to see her dad was so well taken care of… there was a pang of regret for all that was missing. Her _mother_. She was anxious to head to Texas for the weekend, and was looking forward to playing with all of the new puppies and familiarizing herself with the nascent enterprise Sandra was building. Doug, on the other hand… still seemed more like a gay uncle than a potential step-father, but if he made her mother smile then it was worth his company. Kind of like how the refreshing change in their current surroundings was worth… _Lauren_.

"Alright, girls, you're all set!" Noah called from down the hallway. Following the sound of his voice, they hoisted their backpacks and made their way to their temporary living quarters, the sensation of '_vacation_' energetically buzzing through the air – a home away from home. "I'll let you unpack, gonna go call for pizza – pepperoni okay?" They both nodded, and Claire surmised that Lauren would not be joining them that evening, with all of her magic cooking and cleaning and domesticating.

"You okay with sharing?" Gretchen inquired, bouncing on the bed flat on her back, sprawling dramatically.

"Just because we don't share the same sexual preference doesn't mean I don't trust you," Claire replied over her shoulder while laying out her clothes. "I'm not spooning, though." The next item she removed, nestled between her socks and her cosmetic bag, was the familiar leather-bound journal.

"This is almost like a slumber party at your parents' house," Gretchen giggled. "Oh wow, you're still reading that thing? I thought you were pretty undecided on that subject…?"

"Yeah, well, turns out, it's kind of interesting." Kicking off her shoes, she tucked the book under her arm and crawled onto the mattress, settling herself back against the pillows. Gretchen snuggled up close to have a better look at the contents – a clandestine peek into the mind of a person pushed over the edge into unthinkable madness. She couldn't resist, and was privately thrilled to think her best friend might share the same impulse.

"I told you – you _are_ gonna be a psych major," she told Claire. "It totally lights your fire – I can see it. Just think: we can work for the same precinct, but I'll be down in the forensics lab and you can be a wicked awesome profiler!" In all honesty, Claire had to admit that would be kind of cool.

"You get the bodies and I get the brains, huh? That how that's gonna work?" Claire was happy Sylar wasn't there to have a smug chuckle at _that_ particular remark. "Here's the thing, though. We don't really know what this book actually _is_ – I mean, he could've written all of this and just _happened_ to have dropped it on purpose, knowing I'd pick it up and read it. It could be part of some elaborate trick."

"For what? I mean, he's already got what he wanted from you, right? I'm not saying he's _not_ trying to pull a fast one because obviously he's not a notoriously _stable_ kind of guy, but…what's left?"

"Could be anything – could be my dad. Could be he wants to gain my trust in order to get closer to him to do whatever. Or Peter or Angela Petrelli. _Anything_. I mean, who knows – the guy's a whack job, and he's pissed at a lot of people." Although, if the words looped in blue ink with typical male penmanship resting under the light caress of her fingertips could be taken as truth, then she was beginning to understand why. When he'd spent that one afternoon, graphically detailing the similarities that begrudgingly _did_ exist between them, the only thing he'd managed to point out was that they were both lonely. He'd mused with alarming sincerity over how, despite the things that bound them, they could become such different people. Claire was beginning to learn at least one of the differences that separated them: as lonely as she often felt having no one that could really understand her, she'd never _truly_ been alone.

But he _had_. To the extent of paralyzing neurosis. And he still was.

"I'm gonna advocate the devil and say this thing's for real," Gretchen broke into her thoughts, telling her what she wanted to hear. "I mean, it seems like a lot of effort for someone to go through for some _scheme_ when he's as powerful as he is. I mean, he's got a zillion powers – if he's set his mind to something, who can really stop him? And if he was after your dad, I think he'd've come by now. So, come on, let's put on our jammies and go see what your dad's got on TV."

She was ready to relax and put the killer out of her thoughts for a while – especially since, more recently, she'd developed a tendency to associate him with an equally dark and twisted assault on her person, even if he was the one who'd brought an end to it. She stripped her jeans and slipped eagerly into fuzzy pink flannel pants, then dipped her toes into the killer bunny slippers Gretchen had gotten her as a joke that sort of stuck. They padded their way into the living room like restless teenagers, ready for an invigorating evening of twizzlers, pizza, board games, and cable TV.

"I just got off the phone with Peter a little while ago," her dad had cornered her later in the kitchen while she was throwing away their paper plates, leaving her roommate behind to flip through the channels and bask in the flickering, bluish glow of the television screen. "I was hoping I could stay with him while I visited Angela to discuss the terms of my employment –"

"I'm glad to hear there's some discussion happening –"

"– and he had a really _interesting_ story to tell me."

She could tell by his facial expression that she might not like where this was headed. Her mind quickly jumped to the last time she'd seen her uncle – she'd caught his eye far too briefly before she'd been swarmed by journalists and strobe-like camera crews. He'd been joined by a blonde woman she'd never seen before, but had come to understand, judging by the way their arms brushed together too overtly to seem casual, that perhaps the woman was a tad more than an acquaintance. And yet there was someone else… someone behind him, obscured by his shadow and broad shoulders, someone she couldn't quite make out…

"It would appear his spare room isn't quite so '_spare_' anymore since he's gotten himself a new _roommate_."

"That blonde girl? His girlfriend?" That would be uncharacteristically quick of him… but he hadn't been altogether _himself_ since his brother's death…

"Wouldn't _that_ be nice. No, unfortunately, the situation's a bit… _stranger_ than that. Honey, I think you should probably sit down."

And so, that's how Gretchen came to find her several minutes later – traumatically white fingertips gripping the table as her wide eyes gaped and her face paled – listening to the tale tumble from her father's lips… the very same one that verified every word in her privately stashed journal was completely and astonishingly true. And Peter was the living, breathing proof.

Sylar, the very embodiment of vengeance and sick malignance – the looming specter who epitomized evil and escapeless terror – had turned over a new leaf, and the brother of her murdered father had made peace with him… spent two years in an imagined prison with him hammering out their differences, and that was _after_ Sylar had drowned in his own pitiless solitude for the previous three years.

Sylar… _Sylar_ was a changed man. Of all people.

Yes, this _was_ a brave new world, _indeed_.


	4. Truth & Lies

**/N: Wheee zomg in this chapter we get a glimpse of an actual PLOT! *gasp* First of all, I don't say this enough: thank you ALL, so much, for the kind words. This would be FAR, FAR less fun without you. So, without further adieu, I give to you the Bad Guy. And some more appearances by much beloved Heroes characters. Oh, and more sylar!Angst because he's pretty when he's sad. I hope you enjoy!  
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**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**4) Truth & Lies**

Aside from the occasional twister, spring was usually pretty kind to Texas. Sipping a snifter of grand reserve cognac in his study, the mass of his formidable shape eclipsing the panoramic view of the sprawling estate through the impressive bay window, Neil Culbertson watched his two little girls frolic with a brand new baby Pomeranian puppy on the fastidiously maintained, unnaturally green lawn. Toes pinched by his lavish crocodile boots and belly making ardent attempts to supersede the boundary imposed by his copious belt buckle, he ignored the impulse to make himself more comfortable and stayed, instead, to enjoy the sunset painting warm pastels over the oil fields he inherited from his daddy. He _enjoyed_ looking at his money. Most men in his circle would bemoan the lack of a son and proper heir to his fortune, but they didn't know his eldest daughter, Nina. As if on cue she straightened and faced her father. Even at the age of nine there was a considerable amount of challenge and ambition in her eyes – she would be dangerous someday. His affairs were safe, and heaven help the man who ever tried to tame her.

Sensing an approach, he turned to find the tall, quiet, dark-suited Baptist minister, Brother Jacob, stepping evenly into the room with what would've been the aplomb of a pious assassin on crusade if he hadn't been escorted by Neil's bubbly, good Christian wife, Sally.

"You boys want some lemonade?" she offered in her most cheerful southern drawl. "Jacob, you will stay for dinner, won't you? Bakin' a catfish – daddy's favorite."

"I appreciate the offer, Miss Sally, but I'm just here to attend to business then I'll be on my way."

Mollified, the woman nodded and straightened her old-fashioned apron before leaving them to their private matters.

"Just got off the phone with Governor Schwarzenegger's people," Jacob began. "They believe California is the right state for our kind of legislation, since they strive to set the nation's precedents for restrictions and licensure, safety and environmental protections and what not. If we could set up a positive public presence there, he thinks he could get it to pass."

"California, wow, this is good. No fucking around on that – we need a solid plan –"

"And that's what I'm getting to. That senator from New York you had your folks investigating? The devil freak who could fly, was rounding up his own people for the government the first time they tried something like this –"

"Secretly."

"_Secretly_, yes."

"His daughter's the one who threw herself off of a Ferris wheel on live national television."

"Correct. Turns out the two of them share a connection with an ex-cop named Matthew Parkman – who is a current resident of Los Angeles, California."

This pulled Neil's attention away from the window.

"Is that so?"

"_Yes_, your buddy Jim called me, caught me in the middle of planning Sunday's sermon. Anyway, Parkman allegedly lost his mind and bludgeoned a man to death with a tire iron just outside of Dallas, then held up a diner before he got himself shot full of holes by the authorities in Midland. Naturally, these events resulted in the loss of his badge and he's pending a pretty hefty trial on what used to be an insanity plea until Claire Bennet jumped. Since then he's changed his plea to '_not guilty_' – claims he was brainwashed."

"So he's maneuverable, just like any man with a monkey on his back, but who is he? What makes him so special?"

"Well, his wife's a D.A. Jimmy had a peek into her case files. He's a _special_, just like his little boy – he's a telepath. Says he was manipulated by a man named '_Sylar_'."

"Isn't that the guy –"

"The same one who killed Senator Petrelli – and there's your connection, by the way – and Claire Bennet's biological mother, and a girl he mistook for Claire when she was in high school, among countless others. Rumor has it, he's made several attempts on young _Claire's_ life as well, perhaps even culminating in one particularly gruesome attack."

"So…"

"_So_, what we have here is a man who's lost almost _everything_ to this Sylar hoodlum, could stand to pay a hefty price for it, and who also has a baby boy who's going to grow up in a world with a bunch of Satan's spawn running around in it unchecked. We have a blended American family home that's in complete agreement that people like him, if they're good, honest people, _should_ be registered and licensed and held to a strict standard within the confines of the law – appropriate, given he's an old lawman at heart. We have one of _them _as our perfect spokesman. _And_ we have a psychotic super-powered killer to act as our scapegoat."

"But there's still the question of this _Claire_ girl – she's a pesky element. She's cute, young, and well-spoken – she makes a fine representative, and we could lose the younger, more liberal crowd to her. She's got something some old, burnt out cop doesn't have – she needs to be taken care of."

"As luck would have it, she's on her way to Texas – Odessa. You just bought your girls a new puppy from her mother."

"I thought it was a little strange you knew a breeder…"

"It was Jim's suggestion. We could remove her from the picture, you know, like all the others. Make it look like this guy Sylar killed her?"

"You sure it's such a great idea to poke a '_super-powered killer_'?"

"He might be scary, but he sure as hell ain't God. He's got weaknesses, just like everyone else. We'll find out what they are. And we both know we'd be doin' the _Lord's_ work – He'd be with us every step of the way."

"Well, if you're certain about that, then I like this plan – benefits everyone. Maybe you could set me up a meeting with the Governor's people so we can discuss the particulars of this '_bill_' – I'm sure he's got some pockets he'd like for me to line. And I'd like to get in touch with this Matt Parkman character, see if we can't come to some sort of… _mutual understanding_."

~*~*~

*** _Day 99, in Hell_ ***

Sylar made a visit to the seashore, curious to see if the absence of the city's whistling silence would bring him out of the funk into which he was slowly sliding. The venture took some planning, since he had a pretty significant section of metro to cross in order to get there, and he relished the opportunity to give himself something to focus on outside of the oppressively quiet mundane.

Seven blocks northwest of the watch shop was a high rise apartment building adjoined by a large cement parking garage. Excited by the prospect of an exhilarating game of Vehicle Lottery, he began ransacking homes in search of car keys. By the time he got to 4A he started noticing an unsettling pattern: every single domicile he'd set foot in since he'd first popped into this nowhere land was missing the same fundamental thing – _photographs_. Outside of the magazines he didn't stick around to read at the grocery store (since he'd developed a habit of spending as little time there as possible), there wasn't a single human face to greet him – not hiding around any corners, not peering out of any books, not on any of the channels he flipped through, heavily laden with smearing static, and not on any of the porn sites he visited, tending to focus on items located _below_ the chin.

The realization halted him in the doorway, and he stood for an undeterminable amount of time with his head slumped forward, letting the acute lack of living eye contact tumble down his spine like a cold puff of air. He was jolted back to reality by a tiny silver jingle, and he remembered he still held a ring of pilfered keys, dangling from his numb fingertips. Promising himself that when he was done at the beach he'd take his stolen automobile for a destruction derby loop through the nearest parking lot, he convinced his feet to start moving again.

After a good thirty minutes of weaving through the rows of cars, switching hands after the blood had drained from clicking the unlock button wildly through the air, he eventually heard the telltale '_honk_' that told him he was close to his prize. He hoped it was something fun, like a Camaro or a Hummer. While it was neither of these, it _was_ a red Dodge Charger – an _unsuspecting_ red Dodge Charger that had no idea how badly it was gonna bite it Dukes of Hazzard style at the end of the day. He hopped inside and turned over the purring ignition, then drove it back to the watch shop.

Upstairs, he glared savagely at the second half of his plan. He didn't know why he made them. He couldn't understand what he must've been thinking. He was already crazy, and the craving must've pushed him the rest of the way. But when he was placing the little foil cups inside the pan that very obviously was made for _twelve_ muffins and not _two_, he should've known he'd be left with ten leftovers that no one would share. And muffins were made for sharing, otherwise they'd just be _cake_. And, arguably, cake was also designed for sharing, even if it wasn't individually portioned for multiple servings.

It was beside the point. He had no one to share with. Had he ever?

And since when did he _want_ to share his banana chocolate chip muffins?

Since staring at ten leftover mounds of moist, sharable deliciousness reminded him of how achingly alone he was, that's when.

He had heard someone tell him once, back when there were _people_ in his life (it might've been his grandfather), that big flocks of gulls sometimes sounded like crowds of chatty, gossipy old women – like a charter bus unloading its flashily bejeweled and blue-haired cargo at a southwestern casino. Eager for anything that resembled conversation – even remotely mimicking unintelligible human speech – he was anxious to find out if this was true… and if gulls liked banana chocolate chip muffins.

He packed them into a zippered lunch container with two bottles of water, all of which he tossed into the back seat of the Charger with a blanket and a heavier jacket. He turned south and drove along the coastline until he got away from the city, and he started to notice a billowing fog begin to roll over the highway. Nonplussed, assuming the misty substance was indicative of the perpetual March-like dank, he continued until it thickened to the point it impaired his visibility. His curiosity trumped by his desire to find sand and talking birds, he pulled a brazen u-turn in the middle of the road and went back the way he came.

When he returned to where he could see the irritatingly familiar skyline taunting him like fingers frozen in obscene gestures on the horizon, he followed a narrow, winding road down to a stony, foamy New England shoreline. The instant the '_thunk_' of the car door echoed off of the rocks the air darkened with a cloud of beating wings. He stepped precariously over the sand-washed boulders until he reached the water's edge, tossing his blanket over a tall rock that he climbed and made his perch. The birds swirled and banked around him, dying to let their little webbed feet touch the pebbles but were collectively unwilling to do so while his unwanted presence continued to provoke them into tiring, ceaseless flight. Deciding it was time to provide them a little incentive, he unzipped his pouch and pulled out two muffins – one he sank his teeth into greedily, the other he took between his fingers and began to crumble, tossing the enticingly sweet chunks all over the surrounding beach. Birds, as it turned out, were either dumber or braver than cats – with the promise of rich, sugary, fatty food they landed immediately and became comfortable, snacking with insistent bills, chirping and clucking amiably to each other in their gregarious little avian society. The trip was worth it.

Closing his eyes, he pretended he was encircled by throngs of yammering beachcombers – teenage girls giggling on cell phones, middle-aged cougars ordering drinks from tan cabana boys, squealing children splashing in the water, overzealous parents reigning in their young charges, awkward boys trying to catch the eyes of bikini-clad females.

He couldn't picture any of their faces, they were all blank. So, he started conjuring the ones he could remember.

The first one he saw was one he'd seen in the mirror on more than a few occasions – Nathan Petrelli, and largely the biggest reason why he was in this purgatory. His brain was scarred with the memory of what it was like to have a brother… a wife… _children_… most of these things the man was flippant enough to throw away. Hiro Nakamura's words from the diner in Texas haunted him with those images, made him need things he didn't know he'd missed… made him see himself from the inside out, made him _wake up_ and understand that maybe… what he was doing was _wrong_.

That same longing showed him Angela Petrelli. She'd told him she was his mother. She'd told him he had two brothers, and a home, and a legacy, and a place to belong. She'd held him to her, shown him gentle maternal affection, and had promised to help teach him how to control his ravenous appetites. She was going to give him rebirth. It was all one big heartbreaking _lie_, the first of at least a few more disgusting and diabolical deceptions to come.

And he had to find out… from Noah fucking Bennet. The man certainly didn't offer the truth as any sort of charity or act of kindness – it was a weapon, an escape mechanism meant to leverage him out of his life and his tenuous and impatient charade of a '_partnership_'. Which was an ironic switch from where Bennet had been a few years prior, obsessively shoving an infatuating young Elle down his throat, practically salivating as he watched her erotically fuck him into submission, coercing him into letting go of the fragile, threadbare conscience to which he bitterly clung. Once that was ripped away, he was left to plummet straight into the jaws of the monster he ultimately became. Elle Bishop and Noah Bennet were never there to help him.

So who was? Certainly not Matt Parkman. Not that he should've expected him to… not after he singlehandedly ruined the man's career _and_ boned his wife… but the woman came on to him, what could he do… say _no_…? Um, _really_? Sylar found he couldn't be angry at Parkman, even though he'd tricked him in the same breath he'd offered him help, abandoning him to wallow in his own pathetic fear forever. While he was angry and lonely and miserable… he was only angry at himself and as a result of his imprisonment no one had died in the past three months. He felt like maybe he was changing… like maybe this punishment was a cocoon that eventually he could crawl out of a new man… a _real_ boy. It was… _strange_, feeling thankful for a lie.

Before he could invoke the faces of dead family members, and once again lament himself sick over the one face he could never remember – that of his real mother – he opened his eyes and watched another slate grey wave wash over the smooth, lumpy stones and tug at the busy feet of the congregating birds. And then, out of the corner of his eye, a tiny glimpse caught his attention – a quick flash of caricature peeking out around the hem of his sleeve, unconsciously pushed up to avoid catching crumbs. His eyes shifted to fall upon the inky tattooed visage of Claire Bennet, the artful manifestation of that which his heart desired most… whatever that _was_.

At the moment, he didn't care. It was a face – two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a halo of silky, feathery hair – and it was looking at him. It wasn't blurred or marred out of recognition, it wasn't turning from him, and it wasn't running away… which was a bizarre twist considering it was _Claire freakin' Bennet_. He mentally scoured the past three months – he was fairly positive that each time he showered, that arm had been bare. When had she shown back up – just now? Why? Because… his heart _desired_ her? Because he could count on her? Because she'd only shown him two sides of her – honest fear and forthright bravery? That every malefic intention she'd ever voiced to him she meant with a truth that sent goosebumps flitting across his skin like a perfectly tuned timepiece? The sweet Cheerleader, she'd never lied to him… probably never lied to anyone but herself… how could something so wholesome ever feel anything for someone so flawed? How could they be the same but so… different?

He let one finger trace the outline of her cheek, imprinted on the satiny skin of his forearm, wishing the soft flesh was not his own.

"I miss you, Cheerleader," he told the image, stirring the birds from their feast, but not enough to scare them, "and I'm sorry. For _everything_. Someday I'll figure out how to tell you. I promise."

It was the truth.

~*~*~

Claire read his last few lines three times before she finally closed the book and turned to the window, gazing out across the rolling expanse of cottony clouds underneath the plane, illuminated by pale, ethereal moonlight. The captain's voice had broken the muted, sleepy silence in the cabin to convey to the passengers that they'd be landing in Midland soon.

"Won't you be excited to see all the puppies – they're just perfect!" Doug exclaimed as they were leaving the baggage claim to head towards the car, a bit too chipper for the late hour, although the Starbuck's cup gripped tightly in his fist might have been responsible. "And your mom's handling three shows next month – we're just thrilled!" Claire didn't have to force the smile – as grating as Doug could be, it admittedly was nice to see someone so genuinely excited for her mother.

Sandra was still awake when they arrived at the house in Odessa, lounging in a nightgown, robe, and slippers, sipping a mug of chamomile that was instantly forgotten on the coffee table when the girls walked through the front door. She leaped to her feet and was across the room in one giant stride, thankful that Doug was handling the bags, when she pulled her daughter in to her arms and kissed the top of her head. She pulled back enough to smooth her hair from her face and smile at her wetly before the girl cuddled her way under her chin. She opened her arms to include Gretchen in the bear-hug moment.

"Lyle will be here tomorrow," she sniffed, stepping away at last. "For a little while. He's in bed, upstairs, right now. He's got himself in this band and they're playing a set in Midland tomorrow night – they're actually pretty good. Anyway, he's staying the weekend there but I made him promise to have lunch tomorrow so he gets to see you. _And_ get his homework done."

"That'll be great, mom."

Her old bed was softer than she remembered and nothing could have torn her from it except for the smell of her mother's homemade buttermilk pancakes… which was exactly what happened. Claire was surprised to find herself alone in spite of the fact that her roommate had always been an early riser, but part of her thought it was really sweet that the polite girl was probably downstairs helping her mother in the kitchen… like _she_ should be getting up and doing. Throwing her hair up in a rubber band, quickly washing her face and brushing her teeth, she skipped down the stairs to be greeted by the sight of her brother pushing himself far too close to Gretchen for anyone's comfort.

Lyle had always been into girls with long, dark hair like Gretchen's. He looked very different – much taller, but with sharp blue eyes like their father, and fledgling muscle rounding off the slender oafishness of pubescent youth. His dramatic haircut dangled in his eyes as he sat on the couch next to the obvious center of his attraction, both of them leaning over the squirming ball of whimpering fluff cupped in Gretchen's adoring hands. Despite the painted nails and boyliner that accompanied the traditional garage band look, he'd become handsome and was in the process of displaying a rare instance of flirtatious kindness by educating the girl about how to judge a puppy's temperament and instructing her on the proper way to hold the little baby. Ordinarily Claire would've relished the opportunity to be the evil older sister and dash the boy's hopes by informing him in the most lascivious way possible that his sister's hot best friend was a _lesbian_. But… like Lyle, things were changing. And she was too happy to see him to poke fun at his expense. So instead, she left her friend to fend off the dreaded male by herself and joined her mother in the kitchen, kissing her cheek, making a pot of coffee, and setting the table.

"I'm going to make some lemonade this afternoon," Sandra beamed over her shoulder as she confidently flipped a perfect flapjack with an experienced flick of the wrist. The woman made _prize-winning_ lemonade, and Claire couldn't resist it. "I thought we'd also bake some cookies this evening – wouldn't that be a fun thing for us girls to do?"

Cookies… were individually portioned for sharing… and the three of them with Doug's help would be sharing them for the rest of the weekend… together. She was completely enveloped by love and security and warmth – she hadn't slept so well all week and now she was going to have pancakes, lemonade, and cookies with her family. She shrugged off the feeling that bothered her as she allowed Sylar to sneak into her thoughts, drawing a stark contrast between all the things she had that he _hadn't_.

"I need flour and brown sugar, though – can I send you girls to the store later?"

"That'd be great, mom – I can show Gretch around town."

And that was how, sixteen hours after the girls had gone missing, still eight hours before a missing persons report could be filed, Sandra's car had been found locked yet unattended where it had been left in the grocery store parking lot.

~*~*~

There was a Japanese restaurant that Peter knew Noah always enjoyed visiting when he came to the city, as he'd made certain to mention that he and the owner had exchanged information on several occasions back during the old Company days. An aging creature of habit, naturally the place was his suggestion when it came down to deciding on dinner plans. And although he assured him no reservation was needed, Peter wasn't the kind who left things to chance, and he felt rude expecting preferential treatment from the proprietor based on what was likely a sketchy relationship at best with Noah Bennet.

He propped up his sock feet on the coffee table, once again satisfyingly content with the purchase, as he flipped through the channels before landing on the evening news. His laptop warmed the length of his thighs while he Googled the number for the restaurant, but his hand froze in midair reaching for the phone. Matt Parkman was on television.

He caught the computer before it fell to the floor in his haste to clumsily scramble for the remote. He rewound to the beginning of the segment, curious to glean as much information as he could. According to the reporter, a controversial topic echoing through the pulse of the nation was thrust into the spotlight as what could conceivably be an historical piece of legislation went up for review by the House of Representatives in the state of California – one that first went so far as to define what was to legally be considered a '_special_' or para-human ability, then next ask those individuals in possession of such abilities to enlist themselves in a registry that would track them, not at all unlike sexual offenders. Despite an overwhelming sense of public outrage that innocent people could be subject to such discrimination, and that civil liberties and rights to privacy could be so ignorantly maligned, the proposition seemed to come as a direct response to a series of violent and horrific attacks occurring in scattered locations across the United States – ones in which a handful of surviving witnesses claim a tall Caucasian male used an evident form of telekinesis, once thought to belong in fairytales, to cleanly sever portions of his victims' skulls.

"No…" Peter breathed to himself in the chilling dark of his living room, trying to view the situation objectively, praying he hadn't just stupidly made the world's single worst character judgment ever. Regardless of the things he'd learned about Sylar during the two years he'd spent with him, trapped in the abandoned cityscape of his mind watching the changes he'd made take place before his very eyes – even up to the scenario in his kitchen when he'd marveled over the sheer enormity of strength the man had employed to fight the beast that raged within him to spare the life of a person he'd come to respect – he couldn't account for his whereabouts between leaving the Carnival and the night he'd shown up at the apartment, and he had no idea where he currently was as well. He wished he knew how to get a hold of Mohinder Suresh, to beg his adopted daughter to use her uncanny ability. Before he had much of a chance to realize he was more frantic to prove Sylar's innocence than his guilt, and all the significance that that entailed, Matt's face filled the screen.

"Yes, it's true, I am involved in a court proceeding that keeps me from being able to discuss the man I believe is responsible for these crimes, but I can say this: stuff like that doesn't just happen to regular people – it happens to '_specials_' too – it can happen to _anyone_. These _abilities_ can be dangerous for _anyone_. And yes, I'm gonna say it on national tv, I have a para-human ability – I have a _potentially deadly_ para-human ability – the kind that the state of California wants to control and monitor. But I'm also a family man, right? I have a decent, good, and normal wife and a sweet baby boy – and that's it, I've got nothing to hide, I'd lay my hand on a Bible right now. So if it means I gotta put my name on some list so that my family stays safe from scumbags like this guy, then yeah, I think it's worth it. I guess I'm willing to give up a little of my privacy to make sure my son grows up in a safe community."

"He's lying." The smooth baritone jerked Peter out of his tunnel vision unexpectedly – he hadn't heard anyone come in. He jumped to his feet and winced when the expensive machine he'd been wrestling with bounced off the couch and hit the ground. Spinning a circle, he came face to face with a distraught Sylar, paling in the wan light of the television with an arm outstretched toward the image of his one-time tormentor. "Seriously. He's lying – he's being strong-armed, I can _tell_." He let his hand fall to his side and spared a helpless look to his only friend. He'd heard everything. "Tell me you don't believe him, Peter… I didn't do any of those things…"

Before he could answer, his phone rang – it was Noah Bennet. Dinner was, unfortunately, quite canceled.

~*~*~

*** _earlier that day_ ***

Lauren had done just as much traveling during her time with the Company as her… boyfriend? It was weird labeling a man his age as such… Despite the similarity, however, it didn't change the fact that Noah Bennet _hated_ hotels, and _hated _continental breakfasts even more. She disagreed completely. Even though she knew he preferred good old fashioned waffles, eggs, and bacon – and she still had to admit the coffee was terrible and there was no skim milk for the cereal, only thick pasty two percent – it gave her the perfect excuse to enjoy a couple pastries, and hotel pastries were the _best_. She bit into cherry filling that was still warm, smiling to herself as she noted that the lackluster service also prompted her to haul her butt out of bed early, granting her an hour or so of peace and quiet alone time before her day started full swing.

Her brief serenity was interrupted, however, when she paged through the morning newspaper and began to read about a chain of murders that bore a striking resemblance to a known criminal Noah used to… oh who was she kidding, the man was a ghoul that haunted every corner of Noah's waking life. It was no small coincidence that he was also the foremost topic of conversation entertaining their entire drive to the city – she'd let the speeding white line of the highway hypnotize her while he'd recounted the incredible tale of Peter's adventure in Sylar's twisted, tormented psyche, culminating in their peculiar new living arrangement. But _this_ new revelation could possibly have meant that Peter was in danger. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she grabbed a bagel and a banana for Noah and jaunted back to their room.

She was surprised to burst through the door to an empty bed and steamy mirrors, coated with mist from the running shower. Her lover – now _there_ was a more adult word – was up earlier than usual. The pipes protested as the stream of water was shut off, and Noah slung back the shower curtain, wrapping a towel around his middle. She immediately tore his glasses from the top of the dresser and wiped the condensation from the lenses before pushing them against his face.

"Got something you need to look at," she alerted him, shaking open the paper and holding it wide. "Speak of the devil, huh? We should probably get to Peter –"

"No time, Angela called. She wants to meet early."

"But, he could be –"

"Peter can take care of himself, and you know Angie. When she says something's urgent, she's not fooling around."

Once they were both presentable, they marched downstairs to meet the car that Angela sent. Pulling into the circle drive of the sprawling Petrelli estate, once they'd passed through the intricately worked wrought iron gate, Lauren began tugging at the hem of her smart pencil skirt. Noah took her fingers in his to keep her from fidgeting, but the affection did little to calm her nerves – working for a Petrelli enterprise again was going to have an effect her future, and she prayed the reaction wouldn't be adverse. There were some things she just didn't want to have to go through again. Stepping inside the mansion, they were greeted by a familiar face who smiled and welcomed Noah with his Cockney English accent.

"Bennet. Hello, mate," Edgar said as he clasped both of the other's hands. She knew Noah's expression well – glinting eyes set hard in a mask of polite familiarity, perfectly concealing the fact that his insides were still squirming with the memory of what it felt like to be a tomato inside a food processor at the whim of this man.

"Edgar. Pleasure's all mine – what brings you across the pond?"

"Got a call from a lady, said you needed my help."

"Huh, that's weird, because I don't –"

"Gentlemen," Tracy's voice rang as she entered the large foyer. "Lauren." Lauren returned an amiable nod to the acknowledgement.

"_That's_ the one," Edgar whispered.

"Tracy…" the statement fell unfinished from Noah's lips. His shoulders were tight – he was wondering what kind of I.O.U. the icy blonde was about to request.

"Please come with me."

They filed into an austere and rigidly furnished yet brightly sun-filled office to find Angela still in the process of organizing two envelopes containing paper packets. It seemed she'd already drawn up the official terms of their employment, and was wordlessly urging that they forego the formal discussion that had originally been promised. With her delicate chin tilted authoritatively and her severe hairstyle unwavering from its pristine state of order, she offered the documents to be accepted, unwilling to take no for an answer.

"I thought we were –"

"Thought we were what, Noah? Going to spend an afternoon _chatting_? Sipping tea, exchanging false pleasantries? Like the good old days? I'm afraid we haven't the time for that."

"So you're just gonna _force_ us into an agreement because you've – is this about Peter and –"

"_Don't_." She held up a finger and forced the syllable with an autocratic tone that was uncommon for someone of her diminutive stature. It was instinctive for Noah to oblige her with his silence. Her eyes slid shut for one pained moment while she composed her reply. "Am I aware that he has forged some sort of _insane_ peace with…" she couldn't find the appropriate descriptor, "yes, Noah, I was aware long before he was. I knew what would happen at that Carnival, just as I knew what happened _before_. And if you wish to question my reluctant _acceptance_ of this completely revolting state of affairs, let's both remember one of the _other _lies I told Gabriel Gray. He believed he was my _son_. I made him believe he had a home, and that he was loved, and when he found out none of it was true – from _you_, no less, as I'm sure you'll recall – well… I suppose he felt he had the right to remove from me the family I removed from him. I have half a mind to hold _you_ just as responsible for Nathan's death, but in all of this mess I've learned to begin _letting things go_. I'm just happy I still have a son and he's alive."

"But-"

"Do I believe he's in danger? Of course I do, more than ever. But I'm afraid not all is as it seems, and there are much larger fish to fry. _Peter_ is not why I called you here so early."

"So, then what –"

"In your hands you hold not only the normally expected new-hire paperwork, but also your first case."

Lauren eagerly pulled open the flap on the envelope, ready to get this over with, ignoring the resentment that seeped from Noah in palpable clouds as he sulked and opened his own. Comparing the files and the plane ticket in her hands to the ones that occupied his, she came to a dim realization – they were not the same. _Of course not – one of us, one of them. _It made more sense now than ever. She met Tracy's glassy blue eyes.

"So, _partner _– we're headed to Chicago?"

The woman grinned at her robust skill for quick observation. "One of the recent victims left behind a family with small children – they need immediate help. The widow is still terrified and will likely respond better to women. We need to provide them the protection and refuge the police seem to… let rot behind red tape. Eventually we hope to have an established facility," she turned to address everyone, "but we're still waiting to hear back on our funding. It would also be a good chance to investigate one of the killings."

"What the hell is this all about…" Noah seethed, hearing nothing as his thumb pressed a crease into the photograph he found inside his packet. The picture was of Claire and Gretchen – taken by airport surveillance – walking through the crowded terminal hall to gather their luggage. His own plane ticket was to Midland – and not far from that was Odessa.

"I had a dream," Angela spoke, her haunted voice as heavy as the rings under her eyes. "Sometimes they can't come soon enough… Later this evening your ex-wife will attempt to file a missing persons report for Claire and her friend. Something is going to happen to her, and I don't know what it is. Noah, it just seems like my family is dropping like flies…" and suddenly the woman was transformed, her fierce imperialism dissolving into fretting worry and desperation, "and I can't bear to lose another – _please_. Find your daughter."

Lauren could hear his teeth grind – there weren't enough bullets in the world. Without another word or a fractional tick of eye contact, he turned on his heel and charged his way toward the exit. He was fortunate his new partner was quick enough to keep up.

~*~*~

*** _quite some time later_ ***

Consciousness came to Gretchen in bright bursts of blinding light, her weak yet obstinate memory unable to cross the chasm of concussive amnesia. The third time she opened her eyes, blinking away the dilation in her pupils and gasping at a burning pain lancing through her forehead, she became dimly aware of the sensation of motion, like she were rolling down a hallway being bombarded by fluorescent lighting. Like that of an emergency room or trauma ward in a hospital.

The fourth time she opened them, however, was far less alarming and a tad more comfortable. The droning, nauseating movement had been replaced by blessed stillness and a sparse yet warm blanket soaked up the warming gleam of sunshine spilling through a merry open window. A soft sensation slowly spread through her fingertips – someone was holding her hand. She groaned as she tilted her head toward her visitor, and a pounding throb only matched by heavy machinery screamed through her brain like jackhammer road maintenance was performed on the inside of her skull.

"Shh take it easy, you're safe now," the familiar timber of Sandra Bennet's voice soothed her like the skin that caressed her fingertips. "Nothing bad's going to happen to you." As her vision cleared, the natural light cleansing away the smudge of trauma and pain medication, she could clearly see the woman at her bedside. She could tell by the muss of her hair and the swelling under her reddened eyelids that, while her daughter's friend had been recovered and was currently safe, the problem was far from resolved. Something was still very wrong, in addition to the heavy bandages binding Gretchen's head, seeping with a fresh glaze of red.

"Where's Claire…? I saw her… she _saved_ me…"

"We were hoping you could tell _us_ that," stated Noah Bennet's even tone, with an undisguised intensity that twisted her stomach. She didn't have the fortitude to swivel around and face him over her opposite shoulder – easily exhausted, she let her chin drift to toward her chest. "It's very important – you're lucky to be alive. Those wounds were _not_ fresh when we found you, you'd lost a lot of blood – it looks like whoever did this just left –"

"He left me to die."

An uneasy hush fell over the room – no one quite knew how to respond to that admission. Needless to say, Noah was the first to gather his wits.

"We need to know who did this to you, Gretchen."

"It was really hard to tell… it was so dark… like a warehouse or something, middle of nowhere…"

"Can you remember anything about his face? His appearance?"

"Noah, leave the girl alone, she's –"

"Sandy, he's still got Claire!"

"No! I can do it," Gretchen reassured through gritted teeth, "for _Claire_." She took a deep, shuddering breath to calm her protesting belly and spinning head. "He was tall, and slender. He…" She had been mortally terrified – the tears were unstoppable. "He… he raised his arm and… my head… the flesh on my forehead… it…" She swallowed against the sudden rise of bile. "I've seen him on campus before…"

"Noah, that's enough."

"It's alright, it's okay," he relented to the women. "I've heard all I need to. I think we all know what's going on here."

Gretchen didn't need to look at Sandra to see her reaction – she felt it in her tightening grip.

"Find her, Noah," the woman breathed, bringing around her other hand to clasp Gretchen's arm. She was hanging on for dear life. "Please bring her home."

"I will," he returned before addressing his partner, an additional unseen occupant to the room. "It's time to get Peter on the phone. I want every last clue I can get that'll tell us where his new '_friend_' has been over the past few days. And we could use his help – bringing Sylar to justice has always been something of a.. _team sport_."

**A/N #2: Oh, poor the boy... I mean, come on, who's *really* gonna believe Sylar's INNOCENT??? (And a special thanks to MerDerSoInLove for catching my mistake - thanks for making this story one little bit better!)MerDerSoInLove**


	5. Darkness Part One

**********A/N: Okay, so, writing a mystery??? Is HARD. I started this fic with no sense of direction, no planning, and no notes. I now have a much more convoluted outline than AFDF and WAY more notes. It's amazing. Oh, and I also have a headache. I don't know how mystery writers do it. What the heck was I thinking. Please enjoy or I might cry.  
**  
**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**5) Darkness (Part One)**

Lauren could tell by the way Tawni Britton answered the door, peering from behind the security chain with the wild-eyed sort of wariness one would expect from a deer watching a hunter cross a neighboring meadow, that the recent violent death of her husband wasn't the only thing that was keeping the woman up at night. The homey scent of hamburger and macaroni wafted through the crack in the door and briefly she felt like the detestable telemarketer who'd called in the middle of dinner. She curled her toes inside her shoes, shrinking in the yellow glow of the porch light.

"I realize we've come at a bad time –"

"What can I do for you." It sounded less like a question and more like this woman had been _abused_ by questions. Nonplussed, Lauren continued with her purpose.

"My name is Lauren Gilmore, and this is Tracy Strauss. We're with a… _private_ organization, and we think we can actually _help_." As opposed to the _alternative_. Tawni, on the other hand, didn't see the distinction and rolled her eyes as she started to close the door.

"I lost someone too," Tracy blurted suddenly, catching the other woman's attention and freezing her where she stood, her indecisive and red-rimmed hazel eyes staring with exhausted and desperate longing at the blonde, and her weary fingers pushing her unkempt, bottle-dyed hair from her face. "Someone I cared for deeply. We can protect you, Tawni, and maybe give you some answers."

"And we're _not_ the police," Lauren supplied, dropping the other shoe.

"But how do I know you're not –"

Tracy cut her off by lifting her hand. Even in the dim light, pressed on all sides by the deepening darkness of night, Tawni could plainly see it ripple and become transparent – could see Lauren's spreading grin straight through on the other side as she watched a couple drops plummet to splash harmlessly on the concrete step of the front porch. Immediately, her mind made up as if the women were her last hope (and in reality they probably were), she released the chain separating them and ushered the two inside.

"I don't suppose you have any kind of identification or whatever all those agencies on tv have," Tawni called from the kitchen where she worked hard to convince her young daughter to stay put and finish her meal. "You want any coffee or tea?"

"No thank you," Lauren responded a bit too late – either that or she wasn't heard or was just plain ignored – as the woman returned carrying a tray supporting a kettle, three mugs, and some cookies. Which was fortunate because she had been too polite to say yes even though she'd wanted too. It had been a long trip.

"I've been entertaining so many pushy _men_ lately it's a nice change to, you know, just sit with someone I have more in common with."

Tracy smiled as she accepted the offered teacup in a way that just oozed '_I told you so_'. Lauren was just happy that one watery wrist could change the woman's demeanor so drastically.

"The truth is," Lauren answered, "we're not a government agency – as I was saying, currently we're privately funded and we're praying for grant approval. But here's my card." Tracy mimicked her and also laid a small white rectangle on the low coffee table between them. With understated intrigue, Tawni took one between her fingertips as she cautiously blew scalding steam from the surface of her tea.

"Hands for Hope…"

Lauren's shoulders bunched as she tried not to cringe – she was acutely aware of how much Noah flat _despised_ the moniker, although she was sure he'd have given the title a warmer appreciation if it weren't a Petrelli enterprise.

"We're a civil liberties protectorate, interested in developing good relationships between people like you and me, and people like your husband and Tracy. We'd like to take an _objective_ look at what happened here, and –"

"Thank God _someone_ wants to! I mean, at first the police thought he did something to provoke the attack, and then they accused _me_! Wanted to know if he'd done something to threaten me, make me want to defend myself, like it'd be easier if it were some _battered woman_ case… I mean, they _barely_ looked through the house! They kept a pair of officers here the first night – staked them out overnight in a car – but after that they started acting like I was crazy, trying to push it under the rug like nothing ever happened! I mean, my husband is _dead_! _Something fucking happened_ – I saw it, I'm not crazy!" Realizing quickly her daughter wasn't exactly out of earshot, she lowered her voice. "So, I went to the newspaper and the media, trying to get some help. Before long I was flooded with reporters in my house, like Barry was some kind of _novelty_ because he was one of these new people with special '_para-human_' abilities or whatever – he was a big story. I can't believe I ever thought they'd help me find some answers – all that got me was _exposure_. Suddenly I had a whole community of people wondering what Barry did to _deserve_ it."

The last bit forced the woman's trembling hand to mash against her lips before they could rip her heart open any further. She squeezed her eyelashes together, forcing the accumulating moisture to roll down her salty cheeks. Tracy instantly ducked into her purse to retrieve a package of kleen-exes when Tawni reached for a whole box of them hidden around the arm of the couch.

"No need… been doing this a lot lately, could say I'm _prepared_." She paused as she blew her nose.

"Can you think of any reason someone would want to see Barry get hurt?" Lauren interjected.

"Oh God no," Tawni muttered into the tissue before dropping it to her lap. "I mean, everybody _loved_ him. He was witty and funny, a good father, honest…" Her eyes touched a spot on the far wall that Lauren knew had transformed into the shape of a distant memory. "He made such beautiful music… from nothing, just out of the thin air…"

"He could manipulate sound."

"Yes. And he was a warehouse worker for a local distributor – U.S. Toy Company. I mean, he _shipped toys_, for fuck's sake." Her hands smacked her thighs for emphasis. "He lived his _whole life_ to make people smile. I've asked myself that so many times… first thing in the morning, late at night… why would anyone want to hurt Barry…?"

"You said you witnessed his death – did I understand you correctly?"

Tracy stiffened but not entirely out of sympathy. They were still learning each other as partners, what their limits were and the things that would drive them there – she didn't expect her to have the backbone to ask such a brazen question. And truthfully, for a tense moment Lauren clenched her teeth against a remorseful fear that she might have punctured the fragile bubble of trust that had encapsulated the occupants of the living room with her blatant inquiry. Tawni steepled her fingers under her nose and held her tongue, sizing Lauren up measurably as she performed a combination of motions, trying to decide if she had the strength to reveal the events as they'd occurred yet again, and still unsure if these two strange women were worth the hugely considerable effort. She dropped her left ear to her shoulder not bothering to disguise such an irrepressible pain, and Lauren imagined she was picturing her beloved kissing her one more time on his favorite spot of skin, that he was there with her whispering words of courage in her ear, stroking her hair and making it possible to do this, asking her to have some faith. She blew a calming breath.

"It happened over there," she pointed to a spot cornered between a bookshelf and the television. "It was the middle of the night – sometimes Barry had trouble sleeping, it might've had something to do with his ability, I don't know. Anyway, he hadn't come back to bed, which wasn't like him, so I was worried. I went downstairs to see if he was okay. And that's when I saw him."

"Saw who?"

Tawni took a drink and set her cup down on the table just a bit too hard before she angled her squared shoulders to face the onslaught of horror with which that particular corner assaulted her tormented mind. She wrung her twisted, diaphanous tuft of papery cloth between her knees.

"He was tall," she said, nodding her chin affirmatively, "and pale with dark hair and a thick, heavy brow. Had sharp eagle eyes, like a predator. Dressed all in black. He…" She broke for a bit, chewing on her lip to regain her composure. "He made it look so easy, it just happened so fast – Barry didn't even have time to… to _scream_…" She covered her face with her hands and sobbed openly. Lauren felt something inside her sink, something she'd prayed wasn't true. But why? Because he was currently rooming with her boss's son? Because he'd recently expressed an interest in reforming himself and making up for the senseless violence he'd committed, and in spite of every life he'd destroyed she wanted to see him succeed? Or maybe because she didn't want to feel like she'd been played for a fool again.

"It's okay, Tawni, that's enough. We know who did this," Tracy revealed. Tawni's arms fell away limply as she gaped at the woman in disbelief.

"How can you know?!? The police don't even –"

"He's the same man who killed Nathan." Her voice was as thin and sharp as a blade, echoing a wound that bled with a vengeful sort of darkness.

"Nathan… you mentioned him, he was your –"

"I cared for him deeply."

"Tawni," Lauren spoke up, "we'd like to prevent this from happening to someone else, and obviously that's been a little tough so far. We need to know what made Barry a target – was there anything strange that happened before he died? Maybe something you couldn't explain?"

Tracy rose from her seat, perhaps a bit affected by the line of questioning, but also interested in having a closer look at the place where Barry had made his final stand.

"The police and all the reporters have asked me that a million times," Tawni responded. "I just can't think of anything, but strange stuff has been happening _afterwards_."

"Like what?"

"Well, I've been seeing an unmarked white van pretty much everywhere I go. At first I thought it was the police, like maybe they were watching out for us. It was pretty soon after the incident. Anyway, I was grateful so I took them out a plate of cookies but once I got close they just turned over the ignition and sped away."

"Where else have you seen the van?"

"Everywhere – at the store, following me to work… and I think my daughter, Casey, has seen it at school."

"Is it like the one out front right now?" Tracy asked, using one finger to discreetly peek through the curtains on the window.

Lauren felt herself blanch as Tawni whipped around to face her, flinging an elbow over the back of the couch. "Oh my God, are you serious?"

"As a heartattack."

"Mommy?" a small voice murmured from where the kitchen joined the living room, drawn like a moth to a flame by the mounting tension pervading the atmosphere. Tawni was on her feet with marathon speed, easily crossing the distance to kneel in front of her frightened daughter. "Go on upstairs honey," she smoothed the shirtsleeves just beneath the girl's shoulders, "go brush your teeth." Standing as she watched Casey disappear into the upstairs bathroom, her eyebrows knitted together with the unmistakable countenance of someone who'd just thought of something she'd missed before. Lauren stood as well, falling prey to nervous energy and hoping the forthcoming revelation would provide them some much needed insight.

"But there _was_ something…" Tawni absently waggled a finger in the air. "Earlier that week… Casey's principle called us. She was in trouble for changing some answers on a test her teacher had handed back to her, trying to argue that they were incorrect. Casey's never been in trouble before, she's not an unruly kid, so I couldn't understand why she'd do something so obvious like actually use an eraser to change her answers. But when they showed me the test, I couldn't see anything wrong with it – not a single mark was out of place. Her teacher isn't exactly a _young_ woman, I thought maybe she was just confused… but she was so _adamant_…"

"Casey may have an ability."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Once it clearly did, Tawni clutched at the fabric of the shirt over her heart, reaching with her other hand toward couch afraid her knees would buckle beneath her.

"Oh… oh God… do you think he came here for _Casey_…? Oh my God!!! Do you think he's in that van?!? Right now?!?"

"I'll be honest with you," Tracy answered from her perch by the window, "this man is _not_ above killing children. It's very possible Casey was his intended target."

"But the unmarked white van," Lauren stated in an attempt to keep everyone calm, "really isn't his style. He's got a lot of abilities, at least one of which makes it so he doesn't really _need_ a vehicle…" She grimaced as she said it, inwardly chiding herself that she could be so thoughtless, watching Tracy pinch her lips into a straight line as her eyes remained glued to the topic of their conversation. She could sense the restlessness rippling in waves from the woman – despite how badly she wanted to storm across the lawn and tear the doors from their white hinges, eager to wage a vicious, furious battle against the man who'd killed her friend, she had a job to do and an obligation to his newest crop of victims. "If he wanted Casey dead, then…" She decided against finishing that line of thought.

"Oh my god, what are we gonna do…" This time Tawni did sit, yanking at her hair in rising panic. "We can't stay here… we'll go to my mom's in Missouri…"

"No!" Tracy stalked from the window to fill the middle of the room. "He'll follow you, or he'll find you. Either way, you'd only put your family at risk."

"But –"

"We've come to take you with us," Lauren interrupted. "It's our job – to get you out of this situation. We're gonna find out what's going on here and make sure nothing happens to you or Casey. We can protect you in ways no one else can… or _will_."

"But… where would you take us?"

"We have a safehouse in New York."

"But that's so far…"

"I know, but –"

"How would we get there?"

"Well," Tracy began, "I suggest we slip quickly out the back while the sheet of ice I just froze under their wheels keeps them from going much of anywhere."

"Can I pack us a bag?"

"Yes, go. _Quickly_."

Tracy waited until the woman was upstairs with her daughter, audibly flinging around her baggage and slinging open drawers, before she spoke. "Lauren, take a look over here and tell me what you see." She was referring to the maligned corner of the room. Lauren followed her direction and sank to one knee, tracing analytical fingertips over the pitted grain of the old hardwood floor.

"I don't see anything…"

But that was _it_, wasn't it… The finish on the aging panels was all but worn away – if any blood had soaked into the porous surface it would've been nearly impossible to remove. And Sylar had _always_ left behind a very proud trail of blood.

"Where's the stain…?"

"_Exactly_. I sent Micah a text message just a minute ago, asking him to hack into the police files. I think I know why they're treating her like she's crazy. Either someone's a miracle worker when it comes to cleaning a crime scene, or there wasn't any –"

The insistent '_ping_' of Tracy's phone snapped their focus.

"Holy shit…" she breathed, her nose, lit by the device's wan backlight, wrinkling in infectious confusion. "It's Micah… _Lauren_… he says there's no record of a _body_…"

"What the… _fuck_…? But she _saw_ it happen… Do you think the police are covering it up? Why would the cops work with _Sylar_?"

"Maybe the two have an associate in common…"

"Like what Danko was? Sylar can have all the abilities he can stomach, facilitating genocide for some crazy bunch of bigots? Like the Preservists?"

"Exhibit A: _Danko_," Tracy sneered with distaste. "It wouldn't be the first time. That's why they're following her… they want to keep her _quiet_. But this also means we have no evidence – we've got no _case_."

"Not unless we get to Peter. He's the only one who's been close to Sylar recently. If he can't verify Sylar's whereabouts at the time this killing took place, then he's got no alibi and we've at least gained some reasonable doubt. Plus, there's the very real possibility that Peter's in danger. He needs to know what's going on."

"Sounds good to me."

~*~*~

Regardless of the person he was now, Sylar had never been famous for his patience. Peter hung up the phone mere milliseconds before he was about to rip it from his ear. As it was, when the man finally set the thing down on the table and straightened to face him, Sylar was flushed and gulping air, teetering on the verge of catastrophic meltdown.

"Peter," he beseeched, an hysterical pang of sorrow wavering in his voice. He closed his eyes and lifted a hand in an effort to stabilize himself against the sensation of spinning wildly out of control. His throbbing pulse raced between his ears. "You have to believe me…"

"Noah can't make it to dinner," Peter avoided the question with the truth, turning somber eyes toward his feet, "it's just me and Emma. I'm gonna go take a shower."

The twitch of a few fingers rooted Peter where he stood.

"Gabe. Let me go."

_NO_. He couldn't lose this. He couldn't go back to being alone again.

"_Gabriel_," Peter metered out patronizingly, like he was talking down a toddler preparing to pitch a holy tantrum in the middle of a packed department store. "Emma's still hungry, I'm supposed to pick her up. I've gotta get ready to go."

"I killed him," Sylar hissed as he advanced on his prone roommate, vision tunneled by a seething incredulity – one he knew he had no right to feel but was powerless to stop it. Peter's nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he drew himself up face to face, but he didn't rise to the bait. "I killed Nathan – I killed your brother." He pushed himself close enough he could feel his own breath bounce off of Peter's unnervingly still form. "I opened up his throat and I watched the life bleed right out of his pale and petrified face. And you think _that's_ awful? I killed _my own mother_. Stabbed her with a pair of scissors. And that wasn't enough – I killed Brian Davis, that perfect and wonderful man who gave up his life so that I could gain the ability to keep people like you my captive audience." Then he crouched as he spoke, forcing Peter to look down on him, the change in position bearing some sort of strange significance. "But did you know? Did you know what happened afterwards? I felt so horrible – so disgusting – so _repulsive_ – that I tried to kill _myself_." At this he withdrew, retracing his steps until he found a wall to lean against, his unfinished tirade wearing heavily on his shoulders. He flattened his palms against the wall. "Peter…" he looked to him helplessly, "I was so pathetic I couldn't even _hang_ myself properly… so it didn't stop there… it _never_ stops… Peter, I made little Molly Walker an orphan, just like me, and I'd have killed her too if I could've _found_ her – she was just a little girl! I let Mohinder trust me and I killed people all across the country while he carted me around in his car. And let's see, who else…" He pushed himself away and began to pace, eyes glazed with a maniacal sort of gleam, his invisible grip on Peter's body never slackening even though his fingers were busy counting. "There was Isaac, brilliant but flawed, but you did end up getting the girl out of that deal for a while so that was more like a favor, really… I killed an innocent girl in Texas whose only crime was pretending to be Claire… I killed Maya Herrera's brother just because he got on my _nerves_… I killed some guy who offered to help me change a flat on the side of the road simply so I could get Parkman to do what I wanted him to… I killed _Elle_…" This stopped him in his tracks. "I _loved_ her… Did you know that? That I loved a girl once? If Emma broke your heart, would you _kill her_? I mean, _who does that_?!? "

"You've told me all of this before." It was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly enraged, Sylar thrust out an arm, sending a futon to careen across the floor to where it slammed into the far wall. Peter blinked as if he'd been slapped, ready for his body to receive equal treatment.

"I _KNOW_ I've told you this before!!! But I think, _PETER_, that you need to hear it again, because you seem to have _forgotten_!!! I killed Nathan! I killed your brother because I wanted to _BE_ him!!! And then your mother made that happen, and I've _hated_ myself ever since!"

"It sounds to me like you've hated yourself for a lot longer than _that_." It was the same thing he'd told him a year ago, when they had no one but each other for company. And it was the truth. Even as it rang clear as a bell up his spine it stung – the passage of time hadn't dulled the edge off its razor. He slumped forward as his feet carried him to the disturbed piece of furniture, where he lowered himself and rested his elbows on his knees, deflated.

"My point, Peter, is that I've never _lied_ about it. Every achievement I was so proud of – every little shred of power I hoarded, every shiver of shameless glee I savored as I watched the light flicker out of someone's eyes – haunts my entire waking being. It follows me everywhere I go, like a shadow that's trying to constantly punish me, and I can't outrun it. I don't sleep well, I have a hard time stomaching food, nothing tastes right. Every face I see is someone I've harmed – everywhere I go, they can all see straight into me, I'm laid open and bare and empty – I have nowhere to turn and I have no privacy – _NO_ secrets – and that's what I'm trying to tell you." He paused, lifting his beaded brow, eyes begging for mercy. "I have nothing to _hide_. I've done a _million_ terrible things and I've been honest about _every single one_ of them – I'm paying for them all, I _want_ to… so… why would I lie about _this_…? Peter, please… you have to believe me… Think about everything we've been through – _together_… I didn't do this."

"Gabe," Peter replied evenly, unwilling to tempt the man's fickle wrath, "if someone comes here questioning me about your whereabouts when these killings took place, what am I supposed to tell them?"

"Peter, I was in _India_…"

"You _flew. _To India."

"_Yes_, I flew to India! I went there to say some things to Molly – I've got their phone number, you can call and ask them yourself if you need to verify."

"Maybe tomorrow, but right now I'm keeping Emma waiting, so maybe you could… you know…"

Peter's eyed him meaningfully but softened his gaze when he realized what it was he was _really_ seeing. It wasn't unpredictable insanity or a deadly anger that had just rampaged through his living room like an abused and deadly circus bear on the loose… it was _fear_ – pure and unadulterated. Sylar had worked very hard to develop their tenuous relationship, had invested a piece of his heart and his reticent faith in it, and he was scared to death of losing it. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it – it was possible he was telling the truth.

"It's gonna be okay," Peter soothed, "Okay? It's alright. I'll call Mohinder tomorrow, we'll establish your alibi, and everything's gonna be alright. I promise. Now will you let me go?"

"Yeah… yeah."

Sylar let his powerful binding subside and slide back into the flesh of his arms, aching in the joints of his shoulders. Twenty minutes later when Peter emerged freshly showered and shaven, retrieving his phone from the table and his keys from the hook by the door, Sylar was still perched on the futon in the smothering darkness with his knees mashed against his face, watching the city lights twinkle into existence one by one. Absently he heard the door open and shut, and he lamented the loss of any further conversation. He couldn't shake the irksome feeling of incompleteness, like the lingering problem lacked the satisfaction of a needed resolution. His solemn introspection, however, was broken by a knock – seemingly odd considering his roommate had just left the premises… _with_ his house key.

Guided by curiosity, he rose to approach the entry, but tipped alarmingly as the air around him thickened and his environment appeared to tilt, resulting in a bleary, disorienting vertigo. He stumbled his way through the mysterious unpleasantness and managed to reach the doorknob only to find Matt Parkman waiting on the other side. Shocked to be faced with the embodiment of the one ability he'd _never_ craved, one that filled him with a prodigious dose of dread, he tripped backwards in a dazed attempt to create some distance.

"You're going to let me in," the ex-cop commanded. Cowed and herded like a sheep before a shepherd, Sylar couldn't have disobeyed if he'd wanted to.

The apartment spun around him like a bland kaleidoscope of wall paint, bookcases, paintings, and wooden trim. Nauseous and dizzy, his legs gave out, landing his butt to the floor with a heavy '_thud_'. He was surrounded by a crowd of identical kneecaps bending through dark pant legs, circling him like vultures waiting for him to die.

"I just want you to know beforehand, I'm sorry. I didn't want to believe what I saw in your head, back in my kitchen, back _home_… but it was real and I'm sorry."

They faded away, and an image of the man came into view lurking in the middle of the living room. No matter what he said, Sylar could tell by the chill in his voice and the way his brain had been so thoroughly and efficiently addled that his little speech was no sincere apology – this was an attack. He just didn't want him to _believe_ it was. Lining up a woozy aim between a thick fan of eyelashes, he lashed out with a blinding blue bolt of searing energy. His target vanished only to be replaced by a replica leaning against the counter in the kitchen directly across from him. He made another vain attempt to shoot him down, never quite realizing that the individual intended for his blazing menace could have been anywhere – most likely right behind him.

"But you've been bad since then, haven't you… you've done _bad things_."

"No… no I _haven't_… I…"

"Oh yes you _have_. People have died, people have _seen_ you."

"No… no, I'm not that man anymore…"

"Are you _sure_ about that?"

"_Yes_, I…" The sentence fell into dead air as ghastly scenes besieged his frayed senses. Slack-jawed and gagging on revulsion, he drowned in a sea of blood and gore and open skulls – people he'd never seen before, places he didn't recall, abilities he didn't…

_Abilities he didn't have._ None of this was… but it _seemed_ so real…

"It's not the first time you've faced a repressed memory, is it," Matt's voice droned from someplace far away, divining his line of thought. "I've been inside your mind, I've seen your mother's death. All of these are hiding in there too – pushed away where you can try to _forget_ about the mistakes you've made, try to keep on _changing_. Don't give up, _Sylar_, everyone makes mistakes, right? It'll be okay."

"_No_. No. I was in _India_. I talked to Molly – I got my face caved in by Mohinder's fist – I was _there_!"

"But are you _really_ sure? Because I've got no reason to lie to you, buddy – it's all in here, I can see it, and so can _you_. Are you really gonna argue with what you can see?"

There was a sleepless dockworker in Chicago… a stripper with a gift for illusions, in her dressing room, some smoky club in New Orleans… a young couple camping in Yellowstone, she could talk to animals… a gyroscopic teenager snatched from his surfboard on the west coast… a pretty, dark-haired lesbian in a warehouse in Texas – oh shit, he _knew_ that girl… Every yellow-grey leathery pallor, every pair of milky, sightless eyes, was all _real_. Had India been some wild fantasy? Was his overzealous subconscious trying to convince his awareness to literally look the other way while it ran rampant with a lust for grisly destruction? His lips would've felt his trembling fingertips if they hadn't been so numb…

"But I… I…"

"I can fix all of this buddy," Matt tossed him a life line. "All you have to do is go to sleep."

"But how can I… Please… _please_ don't tell Peter…"

"It'll be _our secret_. Just close your eyes, and everyone can forget any of this ever happened."

The sinister darkness, hunched outside the window like a patient predator, reached its shadowy grasping claws through the panes to completely encompass him, dragging him deep into an inescapable hole where he reluctantly succumbed to unconsciousness.

The second his head smacked limply against the floor, Jim entered the residence with two assistants.

"Job well done," the stocky, muscular man crowed, stepping around Sylar's prone form while his underlings grappled with removing it, heaving him down the stairs to the vehicle waiting out back. He plucked at a piece of fuzz on the lapel of his intimidating suit as he inspected the area, making plans for their seamless departure. "I can straighten up here if you want to join the others."

Matt did as he was told, but paused on his descent down the stairwell while he had a rare moment of solitude. Sylar had let something slip – information Matt preferred to leverage on his own. He scowled at the thought of the fee he'd have to pay as he placed the international call anyway. He wasn't going to be able to climb out of the dire situation he was in on his own – he needed help. And the lives of his wife and son depended on Mohinder telling absolutely _no one_ that he'd seen Gabriel Gray. Before vacating the building, he slipped a clandestine note into Peter's mailbox where he hoped he'd find it soon.

~*~*~

Noah Bennet had always kept a meager and simple lifestyle, preferring mobility and function over substance. Before he met Lauren, his kitchen held only four of everything (except maybe glasses): four plates, four forks, four spoons, four bowls, four knives. He made a valiant endeavor out of hoarding nothing, despite the instinctual human impulse to collect and nest. Excluded from this rule, however, were newspaper clippings, skeins of yarn in primary colors, push pins, hanging files, and old forms of identification – all of which he had in abundance. Grateful for the idiosyncrasy, his thumb caressed his old Company badge where it pressed against his thigh in his pocket as he turned a wide circle in the grocery store parking lot. There had to be something there he was missing.

"It don't make any sense," his partner murmured in his exotic accent.

"Can you be more specific? Because I can think of _lots_ of things that don't make sense." His desperation was stoking his temper. Fortunately, Edgar was more understanding that what he knew, letting the snide remark roll off his back.

"Well, this _Sylar_ bloke… Samuel was so eager to get 'is hands on him because of all the abilities he came with, like he was worth about ten people all wrapped in one. To 'im, he was one big battery, right?"

"So?" he played along – he knew where he was going with this, had been asking himself the same question all morning.

"Well, it just seems odd that someone walkin' round with the power of a dozen diff'rent people would bother with some _regular_ girl…"

"He's got a history with my daughter," he regurgitated the answer he'd been trying to ignore. "I think Gretchen, to him, is a means to an end."

"But he's already _got_ her ability, doesn't 'e? What else could he want?"

"To piss _ME _off. He's got a laundry list of vendettas."

Edgar didn't respond, but the silence hung heavy with all the things that still didn't quite line up. Why save Claire from a brutal sexual assault… only to threaten her now? Why go through the trouble of convincing Peter he was a changed man… just so he could move in with him – how ridiculous was that? If he wanted to rid Angela of her only remaining son, why not just sneak in and lob his head off while he's in the shower or something, like he'd always done? And how on earth could he create such an elaborate illusion that would convince Peter of the fictitious _years_ they'd spent together… unless it was something he'd '_picked up_' from one of his more recent victims… but that still offered no explanation _why_. He knew he'd be a fool if he ever thought Sylar was anything more than an enigma, so he turned his attention instead toward the more fruitful effort of finding physical evidence. The gas station across the street was promising.

"You see that?" His partner turned at the sound of his voice and followed his pointing finger.

"What, the roof over the pumps? I don't see –"

"No, further over – hanging off the corner of the building."

"Where, I don't – oh! Is that a camera?"

Noah grinned the lurid opportunistic smirk of a hyena – he was going to get to use his badge.

"That would, in fact, appear to be a camera. The way it's lined up, it's gonna catch anything leaving this parking lot. Come on – let's go have a look at the footage."

At the sight of the very compelling form of identification, the clerk behind the counter was immediately cooperative and willing to comply. The imagery the camera recorded had been dumped to a digital file which Noah wasted no time importing to a folder on his laptop. Several hours later with one aching spine arched over the hotel desk, he finally spotted something in the video that made his heart skip and sent his eyebrows toward his steadfast hairline. The other day, while having lunch at the Indian restaurant with his erstwhile daughter, he'd listened as she'd briefly described the peculiarity of seeing a suspicious white van whose presence had spooked her into taking notice. How strange it was that such a vehicle – virtually identical to her description – could be seen peeling away from the very place she'd last been sighted, also having been spotted in the same vicinity as Sylar, now, on two separate occasions… The coincidence made his blood run cold.

"There," he tapped his finger against the monitor with agitated vigor, "_right there_." Edgar came to peer over his shoulder, his eyes still strained from his earlier turn inspecting the data. "That van. That's what we're looking for." He swallowed against the knot in his throat, gouging him from the inside out at the physical sight of his daughter being kidnapped. "I can almost make out the license plate, but when I slow it down it gets fuzzy…"

"Here, lemme try. I think I can spot things a bit more quickly." He squinted his eyes as they darted over the screen. After watching the same section three times, he announced his findings. "888-BVN, registered to the state of Texas."

Noah had his phone in his hand instantaneously.

"I'm gonna see if the local police can't run that plate, see if they can give us some sort of a lead – anything." He knew he was grasping at straws, but it was better than nothing.

"If Lydia were still alive," Edgar muttered while Noah dialed the number, "she could just show us where to look… _she_ could show us the way…"

With a hopeful breath Noah dropped what he was doing and grasped the other man excitedly by his shoulders.

"But that's brilliant!!!" He shook a finger between their faces. "I happen to know a girl who can find anyone! We've been doing this wrong from the very beginning!"

This time he dialed a _different_ number.

~*~*~

Flour and brown sugar. If her mother had just gone to the store the day before… or maybe they could've made popcorn instead and watched girlie movies… or she could've gone to the more expensive store across town…_anything_… she'd be home and safe…

And Gretchen would still be alive.

Every tear that fell contained, like a particle suspended in solution, the echo of the girl's anguished screams, rattling through Claire's head until they leaked out of her eyes. She didn't think, when she made that famous jump… didn't think about what would happen. Didn't think she'd come to any harm she couldn't heal from. Didn't think about the other people in her life… _defenseless_ people. For someone whose complete totality was genetically designed for invincible defense, it was amazing how easily it was forgotten. She felt shameful, dirty… _guilty_… like a killer. Like a _monster_, no matter how badly she'd tried to stop it from happening. She'd put Gretchen there in the first place.

She'd awoken to the sound of a struggle, blinking away the sticky chemicals used to keep her rapidly regenerative system asleep. She had been enshrouded by darkness – a circumstance that hadn't changed much since then – with the solid, unrelenting edges of concrete grinding against her shoulder blades and hips. She'd been lucky the IV drip couldn't keep up with her metabolism forever – she'd torn the needle away and followed a dim source of light in the distance… to where she'd found him with Gretchen pinned to the wall, her face awash with a torrent of blood. _Screaming_.

Sylar dropped his victim, forgotten, at the intrusion – his face a pale indifferent, emotionless mask. He had no rapier wit to lash at her, no scathing words of victory or malice, no wolfish leer to mar his features. He was a cold, hard, expressionless mannequin. And then she'd been grabbed from behind, suffocated by a choking, horrifying hood, and incapacitated by the prick of a needle in the back of her neck. The last thing she'd heard before waking up… _here_, was the sound of rushing footsteps – many of them – carting her away and leaving Gretchen behind to bleed to death.

And now she was alone and lost and sobbing in an inky black that was impenetrable and blinding. Her other senses sharpening from her loss of sight, she could tell she was covered in a moist grime, like maybe mud, and all around her whispered the sounds of trickles and drips, and maybe a small stream. The mossy, mineralized stench of deep earth was the last clue she needed to determine where she was: trapped underground in a dark, winding cave.

Pulling herself together, she let her Bennet Family Resourcefulness remind her that if she could get in here, then she could get out as well, and there _was_ an exit. She pulled herself to her wobbly feet and patted herself down, coming to the surprising conclusion that she was still in the possession of most of her belongings. She would've been amazed that they'd left her with her cell phone if the idea of getting a signal so far from open air hadn't been so utterly laughable. The backlight, however, was a boon that she used to her full advantage.

She lifted one damp hand into the air, desperate for a draft to grant her some sense of direction. Feeling a slight dank breeze sift between her fingers, her spirits lifted and she followed the dismal glow of her handheld display as she wound her way through the statuesque stalagmites, throwing shifting, imposing shadows all around her. She slid to an abrupt halt, however, at the dreamlike sound of faraway voices, playing games with her imagination coiled within her like a tightly wound spring.

"Hello?" she called to the feathery tendrils of sound. She heard them stir and was moved into action, stumbling through the slippery mud as she clambered around the slimy columns of limestone. "HEY! WAIT! I'm trapped down here – you have to help me!!!! _HEY!!!!_" By the time she reached the spot where she'd heard them and the thrashing rhythm of her heart subsided, calming her breath… they'd inexplicably vanished, once again plunging her into despairing isolation. At her feet, however, was a lumpy mass that wasn't made of earth or stone.

She knelt beside it, waving her paltry light to the best of her ability, and courageously reached out with investigating fingertips… gasping when she found warm flesh underneath the cloth of a shirt. She'd found a body, and it was _alive_. The relative size and muscle structure depicted him to possibly be male. She yanked on his shoulder and rolled him over to face her, shining her tiny beam over his features to get a good look at him.

The following '_clack_' when the phone hit the ground and flipped shut resounded ominously through the hollow corridors. She clawed through the earth searching for the device as she stifled a panicked cry.

"Son of a bitch… you _son of a bitch_!"

Sometimes she hated her life – hated the _past_ life that left her in this cruel, twisted relationship with Karma or Fate or whatever it was that thought this treatment was deserving or funny. Wanted to clamp her fingers around the throat of whoever thought it would be a great idea to trap her in a cave – no food, no water, no way out – with _him_.

With fucking _Sylar_.

Yeah. A million laughs.

**A/N #2: Omg - Sylar and Claire trapped together in sexy romantic darkness...?!? This could be fun!**


	6. Darkness Part Two

**********A/N: I got so stuck with writer's block... right when it came down to the Sylaire interaction. It had been so long since I'd written them with the dynamic sort of banter they had in AFDF Vol1 that I wasn't sure I could capture the same feel anymore. I had a really hard time getting warmed up but when I did it flowed and I'm happy with this chapter. I had a blast writing this and I have some fun stuff planed for Ch7 too - I hope you enjoy!!!  
**  
**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**6) Darkness (Part Two)**

While his capability with American Sign Language had drastically improved by leaps and bounds, there were still some terms that confounded his fledgling skill.

"What was that last one?" he had to ask her.

"_Distracted_," she shaped her mouth around the syllables. "You seem _distracted_."

"Ah. Yeah."

Her almost supernaturally keen perception was one of the qualities that drew him to her, but sometimes it caused him trouble. Peter held his breath for a moment, captivated by the hazy golden glow of the candle flickering softly between them as if it would offer him some means of escape, cupping his hands around the little globe while wondering how on earth he was going to begin this conversation, when he decided it might be best to jump in feet first and apologize to his roommate later.

"It's Gabriel. I know he frightened you the other night… there's a good reason. And since it affects me it affects you, and we should probably talk about it… I'm just not sure how."

"He said he hurt –"

"He _killed_ them, Emma. He's _killed_ people."

She mutely swallowed her spaghetti down a throat that looked like it was constricting before she set her fork on the table with the finality of someone who'd lost her appetite.

"Peter… he –"

"My brother was one of them," he blurted before he lost his nerve. It was only right that she knew. She was quickly becoming a fixture in his life – keeping such a monumental part of it secret, no matter how unfair it was to Sylar, wasn't healthy. As much as he hated casting a shadow over the man, tainting any further attempt for her to come to know him the way _he_ had, he'd learned the hard way the dangers of driving unintended wedges into wholesome and flourishing relationships. In the end, he wasn't responsible for the things Sylar did, and he had an obligation to his own affairs. "To us, it was a long time ago. We've made our peace with each other and developed this weird sort of… attachment, I guess…" He poked at his noodles, drawing a pattern in the leftover sauce. "It's… I dunno. Obviously it's complicated. I think maybe I just feel like we had this sort of _catharsis_. Like, I know I'm never gonna get my brother back, but I've had my time to mourn for him and got my opportunity to be angry, you know? I just want something good to come from it… I want to feel like Nathan gave up his life so that someone else could find some peace and this tirade of insanity could finally come to an end." He lifted an eyebrow to her, gauging her expression in the shifting light. "Have I ever told you why Nathan went into politics?"

Stiffly, she told him no.

"He did it so he could change the world," he reminisced as he twirled his fork, remotely glad they'd settled on not taking Noah's culinary suggestion. "So he could resolve conflict, and make sense out of chaos – make _peace_. I guess it just makes me feel like his death _meant_ something. But last night… I found out some things have been _happening_."

"What sort of things?" Emma asked, eyes widening with trepidation as if she expected an answer she didn't want to hear. He let his meaning pass silently between their eyes and she dropped her chin in understanding. "And he's in your _house_," she whispered in response, gripping the table. "Peter, I'm scared for you…"

"But that's just _it_. Emma – if he wanted to finish off the Petrelli family he'd have done it by now. He even made an attempt at my mom's life, before we got trapped together, but he couldn't go through with it… Nathan _changed_ him. And he's been through a lot since then. He, uh… he had a long _talk_ with me tonight," he didn't know what else to call it and didn't really want to mention the wanton use of bruising telekinesis, "and he swore to me he was in _India_…"

"India…? When _what_ happened, Peter? What did he do?"

"Well… he's been implicated in a chain of killings that span across the nation. He said he didn't do it, begged me to believe him…"

"And you're not sure if you _should_."

Not long ago he wouldn't have hesitated to answer that question. As it was, he hung his head, coming to terms with what he didn't want to admit.

"Is he crazy, Peter? You should call the police. What if you're _wrong_ about him…?"

"I used to think he was crazy. And don't misunderstand – he's _definitely_ got some issues. But he was so _sincere_, Emma…"

"Most criminals _are_…"

"I know, but he told me he'd never hidden the things he'd done, and never lied about them – and it's _true_. He _never_ has. He also told me he could prove his whereabouts – I know the person he said he'd gone to see, Mo's a good guy. Gabe said I could call him and verify he was there."

"Did you call him?"

"No… no, I haven't." He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in reflection after sipping an ice cube from his water glass.

"Because you want to _trust_ Gabriel."

And that was the issue right there – she'd cut straight to the heart of it with the dexterity of a samurai. Emma daintily dapped at her lips with her napkin before replacing it to her lap, freeing her hands for more intricate conversation.

"Speaking as someone who has lost a sense, I can tell you very strongly that faith is _not_ blind. Trust is not an immediate thing – it is something that is developed and earned. This isn't going to go away until you call your friend, Peter – it's going to keep bothering you, and in the back of your mind you're still going to keep thinking that you're going home to a killer." She stretched a slender arm across the table, beckoning for him to take her hand. He obliged her eagerly, smoothing his thumb over her small knuckles. "I know we haven't been seeing each other very long," she switched to her marbled voice, "but I would feel better if you didn't go back there tonight. I'm worried for you. Maybe you should come back to my place."

The Man in him wanted very badly to accept her invitation. Wanted to savor the scent on her pillow. Wanted to cover her skin with his own… remove her bra with his _teeth_… but the diplomat in him knew that Emma was right – he was going to have to call Mohinder, either exonerate or condemn his roommate, and put the issue to rest before he was going to get any sleep.

So, he took Emma to get some coffee and they browsed her favorite bookstore for a little over an hour before he, denying his baser desires, took her home and left, intent on dragging Gabe out of bed for a phone number and a quick calculation of the time difference between New York City and Madras. To his dismay, however, the perfectly ordered apartment to which he returned was dishearteningly vacant. The unexpected stillness was shattered when his cell phone went nuts, causing him to jump. Tracy Strauss and Noah Bennet were both – as if stranger things didn't happen all the damned time – calling him simultaneously. It didn't take a psychic to know what they wanted. He answered Tracy first and listened to her prattle about things he already knew. He suppressed a sinking numbness that slid down his spine, however, when she recounted the chilling tale of the surviving Britton family and all that Tawni had witnessed. Despite their hopes to the contrary, he could not establish Gabriel's alibi, but he did tell her he was working on it and would be glad to speak with her when she got back into town.

He then returned Noah's call, sitting hunched on the corner of the futon in a heavy blanket of darkness with his fingers clawing angrily through his hair while he listened to the man curse about the son of a bitch who'd kidnapped his daughter and attacked her roommate. His convictions were beginning to slip away as quickly as his forced state of calm. His niece – the closest connection he had to his late brother – was missing, and he _really_ didn't want Sylar to be responsible. At the request for Mohinder's phone number, however, he received the strangest response:

"Better call him quick, he and Molly are getting ready to board an airplane."

~*~*~

Mohinder had never wanted to be this popular. As if it weren't enough that he'd had to grotesquely bludgeon a serial killer in his living room, at 4:30am that morning he'd received a clipped and hushed phone call from Matt Parkman who had apparently gotten himself into quite a tangled knot of trouble. The communication had only spanned the course of a few yawning and befuddled seconds as he'd reached for his lamp and dug his elbows into his warm and cozy pillow, but the hasty, breathy urgency of it was enough to startle the lingering dreams from his newly awakened consciousness.

"Matt," he huffed, "what are you… it's four in the –"

"Look, I'm really sorry, buddy, but I need you to listen for a minute because I don't have much time – I'm under heavy supervision. Some really big nutjobs are making me do some really bad things, but they've got Jan and little Matty and I need you to find them – _please_, Mo, _please_ find them. If you can get them safe, I can _end this_. But I can't do it alone – I _need_ you. Shit, here he comes – I gotta go – _don't_ call me back. OH! And _whatever you do_ – this is _really important_ – no matter _who_ asks you , you never saw Sylar. Their lives depend on it, Mo – if you say anything, they'll _die_. _Please_."

And that was the end of the connection – he never got a word in edgewise. He'd known Parkman for a long time – this wasn't the kind of thing he played around on, it wasn't a joke. Mohinder slid hurriedly out of his clinging bed and ransacked his closet for a suitcase and a pile of clean shirts, pants, and shoes. After stuffing the luggage with enough underwear and socks than was probably necessary he rushed to the coffee pot in his kitchen to brew some liquid motivation. He fired up his laptop and rattled off two brief e-mails: one to the dean of his department at the university, the other to Mira, and both for the same reason – to explain the nature of his emergency departure… or to provide a suitably fictitious facsimile of the truth. After that he popped open a container of yogurt while he heated up some leftover idli and mango chutney, and he paced down the hall to regrettably drag Molly out of bed. He consoled himself with the thought that he was only disturbing the girl's rest for a couple minutes, and he set her down a small plate of the sweet breakfast food… adjacent to a patiently waiting map.

"Her location is fuzzy… it's like she's moving," she muttered around a sleepy mouthful of pasty cake and honey-soaked fruit, referring to Janice. "This may not be too accurate…"

"All I need is an approximation so I can book a flight – after that I can call you and –"

"I'm coming with you."

"Uh, _no_ you're _not_. You've got classes and –"

"So, yeah – who are you gonna call when I'm _IN_ class? Or bed? This is _Matt_ we're talking about – and his family. This is _important_. And I missed more school when I was sick with the flu."

"I really don't like this Molly…"

She put her empty plate in the sink before leaning in close to kiss his cheek.

"I don't think you're supposed to." All grown up and wise beyond her years, she padded her slipper-feet down the hall through the early-morning darkness in the direction of her toothbrush and a duffel bag. Begrudgingly accepting his new crime-fighting sidekick, he turned to inspect the area she'd circled on the map before purchasing two expensive plane tickets for a miserably long red-eye flight to Phoenix, Arizona.

They were in the process of checking their bags, his ear still ringing from the voicemail he'd just left with Molly's vice-principal at the embassy school, when Noah Bennet called him, sounding equally as desperate as Parkman with an alarmingly similar story. While there were a few key differences, the circumstances bore the sinister resemblance to the intersections of a spider's web, enticing them to become completely entwined in a sticky, inescapable mess that could prove to be quite deadly. No matter how simply the man tried to describe his meager request, Noah had a way of dragging complication behind him like a soft breeze carries a moth to the dripping jaws of a hungry arachnid.

But now Claire Bennet's life was also at stake.

"We have a short layover in Atlanta –"

"That's perfect – we can be there. It'll just take a few minutes of your time – that's all I need!"

Reluctantly, Mohinder agreed to meet him at the Houlihan's in the Atrium of the Atlanta airport.

He _really_ began to regret his decision to ever set foot on American soil, however, when his phone rang yet _again_ as they stood to board the plane. He was becoming cranky, having been deprived of sleep and his tolerance of shrill, shrieking objects (like cell phones or misbehaving children or metal detectors) having been stretched to its thinnest limit. Peter Petrelli was _not_ the caller he'd expected, though, nor was his question, and his intrigue dragged him out of his foul mood.

"I know this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, and I'll understand if you think I'm crazy because I would too," he began, "but it's actually really important so I've gotta ask." _Everything_ was important today – he was up at 4:30 in the morning and now on a _plane_ because something was '_important_'. Mohinder was getting a little sick of '_important_'. "Have you seen Sylar in the past week?"

He gripped the phone hard enough he accidentally pushed a button, piercing his eardrum with another annoying '_beep_' – with his strength he was lucky the device was still in working condition. He was cursedly aware of the ill omen Matt had bestowed at the mention of Sylar's name. He remembered clearly what he'd been instructed and knew very well what the consequences would be if he disobeyed. But… this was _Peter_… Nonetheless, he chose to trust his old friend and safeguard the wellbeing of his family.

"No, my friend, I'm afraid I haven't," he lied.

~*~*~

*** _Day 106, in Hell_ ***

'_It's never going to come._'

The ghost voices brushed like a downy goose feather across his mind.

'_You already know why._'

'_Where do you think you're going, boy?_'

'_You can wait forever, it doesn't matter – you won't find anyone and no one will find you._'

'_It's not like you have anyone to go see…_'

Heartache like steam rising from the chilly pavement curled around him, embracing him in dank, aching discomfort. He sat on a cold, creaking wooden bench in the enveloping darkness of the subway tunnels pretending to ignore the stinging barbs of his own slowly fracturing psyche, cracking like a windshield under a considerable and steadily growing pressure. While they weren't quite as companionable as the birds were, they unfortunately made more sense.

'_Nobody wants you out there anyway._'

'_You're better off in here… alone._'

'_Killer._'

'_Monster._'

'_Slime. Filth. Garbage._'

He was too apathetic to hate them, spooked into rigid stoicism by the taunting, haunted black, blinding himself by endlessly staring off into infinite nothingness with his elbows on his knees, waiting for a train he knew would never arrive. He'd taken the Charger out the day before (the one to which he'd grown far too attached to demolish), deciding that if he was going to be forced into communing with his own solitude, he could at least do it out in _nature_. The idea had bloomed into an elaborately planned road trip to the west coast. His sojourn had been halted, however, by the same thick choke of fog that had rolled off the Atlantic the week prior, during his somber little excursion to the beach. He consulted his apparently fraudulent road map in an attempt to choose a more southern route designed to circumnavigate the menace only to have been equally thwarted. He returned to the city where the air was still clear, whistling between the tops of the towers, carrying the buzz of quiet streetlights and tickling the leaves of trees in Central Park, and he turned to a somewhat northeasterly direction toward the Great Lakes and ultimately Canada.

He'd come to the conclusion that he was sitting in the hole of a grey misty donut. The image would've been funny if it didn't frustrate him so badly.

The map had lied to him – he _hated_ being lied to. He didn't feel so great about being trapped either – as if the crippling and oppressive loneliness weren't already enough, it needed that extra special spice of strangling claustrophobia. So now he was here, waiting on a delusory train to magically appear, drowning in a demonic dark and letting the spots before his eyes play tricks on him, convincing him he might actually see a spectral light at the end of the tunnel this time. His vocal subconscious was wrong though – he didn't want the train as a means of leaving the city. He wanted it as a means of _escape_. He wasn't going to board the train – he was going to throw himself in _front_ of it. And if that didn't work, he'd jump off the Empire State Building. And if _that_ didn't work, he'd drive the Charger off a pier into the sea. And if _THAT_ didn't work… he'd break down and finally consider shooting himself. Or maybe he'd try hanging again.

He couldn't wake up to the body of a man he used to be – he didn't want to be that man anymore, a troglodyte killing his way up from the bottoms of the shoes that smeared him into grimy obscurity. But he didn't want to be here anymore either, caught in a nightmare that was a constant visceral slideshow portraying everything he hated about himself. He didn't want to be this detestable thing that had made him so alone… but he didn't know how to change. He wasn't even sure that he could. So, he didn't want to be alive at _all_. He gave up.

He decided he would wait, as long as it took, for the train. If he was lucky, maybe he'd waste away first, finally see that streaking tube of aluminum tear past his dusty bones. After three straight weeks (he had nothing better to do, right?), numb and atrophied, he finally pushed himself to his feet, discontent with the knowledge that Matt had been true to his word and had left him with this singular ability… to rot forever with his despicable self.

He drug himself back into open air with no fanfare and no one to miss him – no mother to kiss his cheeks and feed him to put some '_meat on him_'… no lover to encircle him with softly perspiring and perfumed flesh, to deliver him into a long overdue state of gasping, joyous ecstasy… no friend to bring him a cold one and listen – _really listen_ – while he poured the pains of his heart out between them… nothing. Just the rustle of generic, causeless litter scraping down the barren pavement.

Had it ever been any different? He stood leaning on the railing lining the stairwell, weak and dehydrated, wondering what kind of man he would've been if he'd ever had someone in his life who'd been willing to just… _listen_ to him.

'_You can find it, you know._'

"No I can't."

'_Yes you can, don't give up._'

"Don't give – are you _crazy_?!? I can't _leeeave_ to find _anything_! Am I crazy, heh… of _course_ I'm crazy… I'm talking to myself _and answering_…"

'_There is love for you._'

"Fuck off."

'_It is within you – you can find it._'

"I said. _Fuck. Off_."

'_Try some faith, Gabriel. You can find it. Don't give up._'

~*~*~

Claire squeezed the phone in her muddy hand hard enough her fingernails bent, gripping tighter with every breath she could hear him make, whispering between them in the clammy black humidity. Each languid rasp ticked her ire up another notch until all she could hear was Gretchen's begging screams and she could smell her drenching blood. Other faces flitted in and out of the dark as well, like bats hungrily darting after agile winged insects: Nathan, Meredith, Jackie… she thought of little Molly Walker who'd also lost her parents… she thought of Mohinder, who'd lost his father… and there were so many more. And _here he was_, fast asleep in a hole underground, draping the same deft killing fingers across his chest that had fabricated one massively long story of a lie whose leather-bound bulk currently hung squarely in her left jacket pocket.

He shifted a leg and made a small noise in his throat, and that was all she could take. She decided he was done sleeping. Sliding her clay-coated phone into an empty pocket, she sifted through the earth at her side until she found a rock – heavy yet rounded by water wear and time. She scooted a determined approach to him on her knees and lifted the stone high above her head.

"Wake up, you son of a bitch!"

The fleshy thud that filled the space when she let her hammer fall was punctuated by the sharp, pained '_oof_' that burst from his lungs. Instinctually, he raised his arms in defense, but his sluggish brain was too addled to mitigate any subsequent blows. He squirmed and writhed beneath her, satisfying her need for brutal vengeance, when she crushed his elbow, cracked his skull above his right eye, snapped his ribs, and bashed his upper body full of lacerations and contusions. She thought she did pretty well for someone who couldn't see anything.

The cumbersome tool, however, dropped from her fingers and smacked to the wet ground as she was violently flung through the thick air to become pinned like a poster to an impressive column of limestone. Her eyes immediately stung with a sheen of tears as they were traumatized by a brilliant blue light. Squinting until her retinas could regain their use, she peeked at him just in time to watch the wounds splitting his expression of pure, unrestrained malevolence begin to knit back together. He softened, however, when he got a good look at his attacker, illuminated by the ball of crackling energy held aloft in a shaking palm, and he collapsed to one side in a breathless state of limp recovery.

Immobilized and suffocated by grief, she began to weep in earnest. He had been the one to convince her it was time to let down her guard and allow someone into her life – made her believe it was okay to put her faith in some little brunette piece of humanity, and divulge the weighty secrets that burdened her existence. And, in the end, he'd been the one to take her only friend away from her. What was this sick obsession with constantly breaking her heart? What had she done? This was more than just a jab aimed at her dad – this was _personal_. She clenched her teeth and screamed at him.

"_What did I do?!? What the HELL did I EVER do to you?!?"_

"Claire," he groaned, "I don't think –"

"NO!!! Don't you dare – _I SAW YOU!!!_ You _KILLED_ her!!!"

"No…" His eyes searched the ground, he was clearly confused about something. "I didn't, I…"

"_YES YOU DID!!!_"

"There were so many… but I don't have anything…"

She didn't hear his rambling.

"_WHY?!?_ What did she do?!? What did _I_ do?!? Answer me you _piece of shit!!!_"

"I don't have anything _new_… _No_. Claire, I didn't do this."

"You're lying – I fucking _SAW_ you!!!"

"I _don't_ lie, Claire – not to you, not to anyone – you _know_ it. I didn't kill any of them."

Any of _who_? There were _more_? At this she began to struggle, her spine feeling like it was grinding through her skin against the rough stone at her back. "Let me down, goddammit!!!"

"I see it too, though" he ignored her, "see myself killing all of them, but… but I don't have any new abilities. And… I was _gone_… I have _vivid_ memory of being in India… it doesn't make sense. Ask yourself, Claire – why would I kill Gretchen? She doesn't even _have_ an ability…"

"I don't even wanna _try_ getting inside your sick, twisted mind – _I FUCKING SAW YOU!!!_ I know what I saw!!!"

"Then tell me this, _Claire_," he was starting to get indignant, "tell me, because you _obviously_ know something I don't – why the hell am _I_ down here too?!?"

This stopped her from straining against his ironclad hold – she didn't have an answer… didn't want to _think_ about an answer… couldn't see anything other than the empty bed across the dorm room from hers… she was desiccating in a vacuum of loneliness all over again…

"Do you even know how _you_ got down here?" he continued with his unwelcome logic. "Because I think I remember how _I_ got here… and his name was _Matt Parkman_."

"Maybe he's come to finish what he started," she sneered, balling a fist at having let a bit too much slip through her loose, spiteful lips. "Yeah," she backpeddled, "I heard about your little psychotic adventure. I hope you don't expect anyone to _believe_ it… and it's pretty shitty that you had to drag Peter into it too, like you haven't caused him _enough_ trouble already…"

Even in the pale light she could plainly make out the brief flash of horror that blanched him as he slammed his back into the cave wall, fretfully chewing on the thumbnail of his free hand as he stared headlong into the dripping earthen void. His mind, fully awake now, was racing a mile a minute.

"I can't find it…" he muttered nonsensically, "if I could find it I could show you… it wasn't some image he put in my head, it was so… no. _No_." As if he'd come to a decision about something, he rose to steady feet, fervent with belief. "No. It was _real_ – all of it. Five years." With one giant stride he was in front of her, his eyes gleaming in the harsh radiance he held between their noses. "I paid for my crimes in the worst hell imaginable, I made my peace with your uncle, and I left everything else behind – I'm a different man now. I didn't kill _any_ of those people."

"Then explain how –"

"It was an _illusion_…" he tucked his chin away, considering the thought. "All of those murders… he wanted me to _believe_ I committed them…"

"So, I'm supposed to believe that –"

"Claire," he jutted his face back up to meet hers, "what I'm trying to say is that I think what happened to your friend is _also_ an illusion."

"You think –"

"That she's out there, somewhere, perfectly peachy in one little piece wondering what the hell happened to _you_? Yeah, that's _exactly_ what I think."

"And you think Matt's got something to do with it."

"I think he has _everything_ to do with it."

"No. Matt wouldn't do this to me."

"He would if he wanted you to convict me, in case you escaped."

"So why throw me down here?"

"Same reason I'm down here too – because we can't be killed and we're in the way of something."

"You really expect me to believe –"

"Claire, look – I don't know much more than you do, okay? And I don't really care what you believe, but just think about it – _nothing else makes any sense_." He backed away from her, impatience lining his brow as he lifted his sparking lamp to have a better look at the eroded canopy over their heads. "You and me," he tossed over his shoulder, "we're just two genies in a lamp."

"Put me down."

"Only if you promise not to pick up any more rocks."

"Whatever, just let me go."

Her feet touched the ground marching. Without waiting for him, she flicked clumps of mud as she ripped her phone from her pocket and followed it's blaze as it parted the curtain of darkness before her. She didn't acknowledge him as she unflinchingly passed him by, intent on seeking the source of the voices she'd heard earlier.

"Where are you going." It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"I'm not gonna sit around and wait for the end of the world, stupid – I'm gonna try to find a way out of here."

"How do you know you're going the right way?"

"Because I heard voices when I found you – I thought maybe they came from somewhere over here."

"You _thought_ – Claire, do you even know which direction is up?!?"

"Do you have a _better_ idea?!?" she whipped around and rammed a hand into her hip. "Or do you wanna just sit here and _think_ our way out of the cave? Because I gotta tell ya, between you and me – as psychotic as you are and, well, I'm _blonde_ – I don't think our odds are too awful great!"

Even with the shadows obscuring his face she could detect the hint of a mildly humored smile at her funny little barb.

"What are you gonna do when your battery runs out?" he returned just as easily. She rolled her eyes hard enough to toss her hair – he was goading her. No matter what changes he claimed to have undergone, there was still at least one smarmy vestige of Sylar remaining, evidenced by the way he took a perverse pleasure in shoving her out of her comfort zone. He left her no choice, she had to admit it.

"Why don't you come with me," she glowered with her face tilted to the heavens, praying for strength.

"Since you asked so nicely," he answered, catching up to her with a carefree step. "But seriously, save your juice, put that thing away. I got something better – hold out your hand."

"Are you kidding me…?"

"_Just do it._"

She jumped involuntarily as he offered her his electric object, and for a brief moment gentle fingers of lighting licked up her wrist and arm like the spikes of a Tesla coil. She expected a violent shock, forgetting she was impervious to discomfort as well as injury. Her skin sizzled when she accepted his gift, but the burns healed as fast as they landed.

"How does it stay lit –" she started to ask, but was interrupted when she noticed streams of energy, as animated as a living thing, coursing between their two bodies, connecting them in a freely flowing sort of loop. A swirl of his fingers birthed an identical ball to replace the one he gave her.

"Follow me," he directed, "and watch your feet. Don't let anything break the circuit or the energy will go to ground and… well, it's a bit more unpleasant than, '_Hey, who turned out the lights?_'"

"It won't make me wet myself or anything, will it?"

He paused before beginning any forward progress.

"Just don't let anything break the circuit."

~*~*~

"Hey Frankenstein, maybe you could –"

"If you're referring to the monster, Claire, that wasn't his name. That was the name of the –"

"I'm referring to anyone who is recognizably as tall and creepy as you are – _slow down_. These rocks are slippery and it's hard to keep up."

"I'm not really moving that fast, Claire."

"Do you _really_ want to risk a pants-wetting incident?!?"

"Okay, okay, fine. Chill. Hey – what's that?"

He brought his orb around to throw into stark relief the opening of an off-shooting shaft.

"Ughhh… another tunnel… are we gonna follow this one too? I'm so confused… How can we get out of here if we're _so_ completely lost?"

"We're not lost."

"Shut. Up. Sometimes you are just ridiculous. And I can't believe I just said '_sometimes_'."

"I'm not being ridiculous – _hello_, intuitive aptitude," he tapped at his brow. "I've been keeping a running tally of every bend we've taken. Got a knack for complexity."

"You mean to tell me you've been mapping this whole cave as we've been moving. _In your head_."

He simply turned to look at her, imparting his affirmation with the firm set of his eyes.

"Go on, you can say it. What would you do without me?"

"What would – what would I _do_? Without _you_?!? Oh that's great – yes, let's see, what _would_ I do without you." She hoped he regretted asking. Carefully she stepped around a smooth, slimy hump of rock. "Okay, so, yeah… for starters, I'd sleep a lot better at night… more immediately, I wouldn't have this vision of my roommate getting her _head sawed open_ raping my brain… OH and how about this one? This is a good one. I'd actually get a good chance to know my real parents!!! You sorry you brought it up?"

"You wouldn't be alone."

There was no wicked amusement in his thin, mournful tone. The pause between them was pregnant with all that was left unsaid. She didn't think he was solely referring to their shared eternity. Spent, she let the conversation fall.

"I think it dead-ends," he muttered, less to ease the tension and more to keep moving. "All I see is just dirt back there." He was tall enough to get a good look. Just this once, she trusted his judgment.

He angled away from her and continued winding through the slowly shrinking passage, blocking the light he emanated, creating a dim corona effect around the shape of his body. Claire watched the weave and bob of his broad shoulders as he stabilized himself with lithe, supportive fingers trailing the sweating wall. The soft slap of the journal against her ribs jarred her insistently with the thought that he might be telling the truth.

"Why were you there?" she ventured, her sudden vocalization bouncing off the rock.

"Hmm…?"

"At my school. That night. Why were you there."

"I already told you why."

"Okay, so you _don't_ want to have a conversation, _excuse me_, I'll shut up now."

His progress devolved as the tunnel narrowed, requiring that he curve his spine and stoop his tall frame in order to adapt. From underneath his arm she heard a laden sigh leave his nose. So she wasn't the _only_ one who wasn't so good at the talking and the sharing…

"The last time I'd seen you," he told her, "was in a coat closet. I'd, uh… I'd probably overstepped my boundaries with you –"

"You can say that again."

"– and you'd shoved a pencil in my eye. Which is really messy, by the way," he added with his chin perched on his shoulder. "Anyway… once I got out of Matt Parkman's basement… I didn't know what else to do and didn't have anywhere to go, so I decided maybe I just wanted to, I dunno, _start over_ I guess. I had some things I wanted to say to some people… people like you… but can you imagine how _hard_ that is?" He stopped and turned, and leaned against the stone to bathe his features in his eerie blue glow – the look on his face was so foreign it was tough to read. "And I knew it would be hard – I'm not saying I didn't – I _want_ it to be hard. I mean, _shit_… I went to talk to Molly – I flew all the way to _India_ – and got intimately acquainted with Mohinder's fist the instant the door opened up. Claire, do you know what it feels like to have a _freight train_ collide with your _face_? Because, now, I do. And I can't blame the guy. _Hell_, Claire, Parkman trapped me in a fucking _cave_ because someone wants to take advantage of the fact that I've killed people – and I _still_ can't hate him, no matter what he did to me." He dug his heel into the mud, finding it easier to become engrossed in watching the mushy trench fill with water than face her penetrating gaze. "What I'm trying to say is… I knew the odds were stacked against me… I knew you weren't going to believe me… and it's _okay_. I'm willing to do what it takes, and I _understand_ that it may take an eternity.

But Claire, I was there that night because I owe you… _something_. An apology, an explanation, _anything_. Whatever you want. But… it was the first time I'd seen you in _five whole years_. And then, yeah, the _second_ time I've seen you I woke up getting bludgeoned half to death by a freakin' _rock_, so I'm doing really _great_ here… but that's where I am.

I'm not asking you to believe anything. I'm definitely not saying I deserve it. Just one chance, though, Claire, that's all I'm asking for – give me just _one_ chance."

She stared at him dubiously for a few moments, wanting nothing more than some fresh air and sunshine, her old bed, her mother, some cookies, and her friend. Like his spewing mouthful of confession, their peculiar association had gone on far too long.

"Just get us out of here, and we'll see."

"Fair enough."

"I can't believe I'm stuck in here with you…"

"Not the first time I've been trapped alone with a Petrelli."

"I'm a _Bennet_."

"I'm not gonna argue semantics with you, Claire."

As they moved on in silence, she allowed her thoughts to cloud her focus and she became preoccupied with the wholly preposterous concept of granting the infamous mass murderer in front of her a second chance. What chance did he give her to escape his ruthless claws that she didn't have to steal from him, tooth and nail? What chance did he give Jackie as she begged for her life, or Nathan? What chance did he offer _any_ of his victims as their hopes and dreams flowed as uselessly as their final breaths ebbing from lips frozen in the petrified throes of death? Damned _straight_ he didn't deserve it… but if she denied him, would that make her any less cruel? She didn't think so, but if there wasn't a small part of her that did… would it even have been a question…?

Her introspection was rudely interrupted when her foot slipped on a wet trough she hadn't seen, eclipsed by a fickle cover of shadow. Her butt hit the ground hard but didn't stop – she began to slide into ravenous blackness, like she was being swallowed whole by the colossal mouth of a whale. Her light fizzled out when both hands scraped for purchase in the earth behind her, and distantly she heard Sylar yelp, presumably from the jolt the broken circuit delivered him. She fell in total blindness for what felt like a lifetime until at last she crashed to the bottom of the fathomless pit, certain she'd broken both of her legs and probably a good chunk of her pelvis, maybe an arm and probably a collarbone.

She pushed herself as upright as she could manage given her present state of disability, and heard her name echo all around her in the ominous dark as Sylar bellowed it from what seemed like a million miles away. She opened her mouth to reply, but something splintered in her chest prevented any sound from being uttered.

And then she heard it… buzzing up her spine, tensing her shoulders and widening her functionless eyes… _rattling_. And then the ground beneath her _moved_. It _slithered_. Her breath came in short gasps. She tried to crawl away, but they were everywhere – under and over her legs, wriggling under her hands, tickling her skin as curious reptilian tongues lapped at her arms.

_Rattlesnakes_. She'd fallen into a den of _rattlesnakes_.

When the first hot pin-prick punctured her she finally cried out… and she continued to scream into nightmarish oblivion with every subsequent bite.

_THIS_ was truly the worst hell imaginable.


	7. Darkness Part Three

**********A/N: Whew this chapter is late!!! Sorry folks! Had some nice family time, though, did a little traveling, and am currently getting over a nasty cold so to say I've been busy is a tad of an understatement, but I would NEVER give up this story =D It must go on! The most important reason for the delay, however, is the amount of research I had to put into it: restaurants in the Atlanta airport, menus for that restaurant, caves in Texas, corresponding coordinates even, the surrounding terrain at said coordinates (even though my grandma and my mom grew up in parts of Texas), what domestic oil marketing companies were like (they have nice websites btw, very tasteful), symptoms of rattlesnake bites, etc. Tons of stuff. I'm also gonna forewarn - I've made a very bold move and I'm fleshing out Sylar's character quite a bit more than what the show allowed. I mean, let's face it: we don't really know much about the guy other than he's got an ability, he's got mommy issues, and he kills people. Claire we've got figured out pretty well, but there's a lot of Sylar that's still a mystery. I'm filling in some of the gaps. If you see ANY toes I've oafishly stepped on (because some research didn't turn up much in the way of results), please let me know so I can groan in my retardedness. And, lastly (since my A/N isn't long enough), I'd like to shout out to Smithsbabe65 and BlueWhitney - I think I've had this conversation with both of you, or at least one of you and I don't remember which - there's a line in here you'll recognize =D It's for you =D (Hint: it's toward the end)  
**

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**7) Darkness (Part Three)**

Mohinder set his phone on the table before stomaching another sip of watery tea, disdainfully picking over the menu while waiting to be joined by Noah Bennet and his partner. He culturally had a difficult time grasping this country's obsession with red meat, wrinkling his nose at the garish pictures of the stuff splashed largely across the oversized pages portraying the collection of their selectable fares in arrangements that were laughably designed to stimulate the appetite. He thought maybe he just wanted a salad… or perhaps the French onion soup. Molly, on the other hand, happy to be back on her native soil, was very satisfied with the prospect of ordering an eight ounce filet. Medium _rare_. Now he knew why she was so insistent on coming… Forty minutes later he watched Noah tuck into his own top sirloin while his English partner sampled the salmon, and Molly, having chickened out and settled for the more kid-friendly pasta alfredo, nimbly missed the drinking glasses as she slapped her map down in the middle of the table.

"Anxious to get rid of us, huh?" Noah chuckled to the girl in a way that wasn't quite genuine. Molly only showed him a creamy white smile that oozed with acerbic teenage sarcasm. She picked up her butter knife and performed her magic, spearing the creased sheet of paper with the tip on an area smack dab in the middle of the state of Texas.

"She's just southeast of thirty-one north, one-oh-one west."

"That's Edwards Plateau country, few hours from Midland… pretty scrubby, not many places to hide," he didn't do much to disguise the shiver of fear that crawled down his spine. "Outside of the cities, not many people to hear anything besides a few ranchers… it's awfully remote."

Perceptive to his partner's mood swing, Edgar signaled the waiter for their check. "If we're lucky though, mate, maybe that'll make 'er easier to spot…"

"I cannot thank you enough," Noah imparted as they made their hasty exit after signing the credit card receipt, leaving Mohinder behind to marvel over their speedy departure, spoon still hovering over his steaming bowl stringing a trail of molten provolone, mouth-breathing to avoid allowing the stench of Noah's wastefully half-eaten shank of bloody flesh to pervade his nostrils.

"That was… far less complicated than I thought it would be," he muttered once the men had left.

"You wish… that was only _half_ of it." Molly lifted her utensil a second time, letting the weight of its blunt end fall a second time to a position just north of Houston. "Earlier, I think Janice was on a plane. This is where she is _now_."

"Looks like they aren't the only ones headed to Texas…"

Mohinder signaled as wildly as his mild-mannered self could muster, vivaciously eager to pay his tab and catch up to Noah Bennet. He wasn't a devout man, but he knew better than to ignore an omen – they were meant to work together.

~*~*~

"I dunno, Neil, this little guy seems a bit too fair to be a Mexican or even a Cuban," Sally proclaimed, suspending the little boy in the air while she wiggled her thumbs into his belly, tickling away the disoriented insecurity that came with having been separated from his mother. "But who else would just leave him in our garden if not for some unfortunate, underprivileged soul… we should really call the State …"

"Prob'ly should," Neil Culbertson mumbled, rustling the newspaper sweeping across his lap as he reclined in his sitting chair, reading glasses glittering on the tip of his stubby nose in the expensive lead crystal lamplight. Managing a half-assed attempt at folding the periodical into a vaguely rectangular shape that made absolutely no sense, he stuffed it into the sweet-smelling cedar magazine rack that dressed up the little area of the study. After some effort he eventually levered himself out of the chair and into his boots and was on his way to the front door when the phone rang. Any hope that Sally's hands were too full to answer it was dashed.

"Neil!"

"I'm on my way out to the shed, Ma – just have 'em call back tomorrow."

"But it's Brother Jacob! Says he needs to talk to you!" The baby was fussing again – Sally was about to lose her patience with her husband.

"I'll take it in the shed – tell 'im to hold on a second."

"You should really hire someone to work on that old tractor, Neil – you're gonna hurt yourself. Those things are dangerous…"

He suspected the only reason why Sally wasn't calling the nanny was because the phone line was otherwise occupied, regardless of the fact it was a tad late in the evening. He allowed the manservant to open the door, admitting him access to the opulent palisade that constituted the front porch – towering with rusty-pinkish sandstone columns casting twilit moon-shadows over the bubbling fountain, sluicing cheerful rivulets of water over smoothly tumbled stones in the center of the circle drive. He waved the employee off as he marched away on foot – it was past time he head home. Kicking at the soaked grass clippings stowing away on the toes of his boots for the duration of his trek down the hill and across the estate, he ensured he was in fact alone and slipped unseen into a large and remote utility shed erected at the distant edge of the sprawling expanse of lawn. He picked up the phone next to the densely populated tool bench and waited until he heard the click, telling him Sally had set down the receiver in exchange for her endeavor to mother the wayward infant.

"Brother Jacob."

"Good evenin'. Am I to understand your new… _guests_ are finding their accommodations to be comfortable?"

Neil thought of the smile that briefly flashed across the baby's face when Sally took advantage of the soft spots universal to all children his age.

"We're taking good care of them, yes. They're very happy. What can I do for you?"

"Jim called me. I suppose he thinks it's more seemly for you to receive your information from a man of faith?"

"He's always been a suspicious character."

"I guess so. Anyhow, he caught up with the tail at the Atlanta airport. The guy met an Indian there – not the American kind – with a girl who _is_ American. He wasn't sure how much he knew, but he's hot on our trail – headed straight for Midland. It's not a far jump to the Plateau where the cave is located."

"It might be worthwhile to send some folks out there to keep an eye on things. I'm a bit… _tied up_ here – would you mind giving him a call?"

"Certainly, no problem."

As he replaced the phone to its cradle he reminded himself he didn't have much to worry about – he still possessed all of the cards. One little nosy man in horn-rimmed glasses was never going to present much of a challenge, no matter how many sidekicks he was able to recruit. He settled his formidable bulk between the tall, wide rear wheels of the tractor and dropped his feet into the mechanic's pit underneath. Once inside, he touched a button on a panel that revealed a doorway to a secret room. Inside, he beheld his other powerful bargaining chip – a dark-haired and sweetly pretty Janice – strapped to a hospital bed and kept under heavy a fog of sedatives for the duration of her captivity. Next to her, on a low aluminum table, rested a vial filled with the chemical he'd need to drip into her IV should things go wrong…

The chemical he'd need to claim her life should Matt Parkman disobey.

~*~*~

Noah had just placed his carry-on bag in the overhead compartment when his phone rang. In spite of knowing that their totalitarian flight attendant would remind him to soon power down the device or suffer the consequences, he answered the jingling tone in the hopes that the voice on the other end would tell him something worthwhile. It was Virgil – a colleague of his and Lauren's from days long gone by – the same man who had done them a rather sizeable favor a few months back by absconding with a particularly troublesome individual from Central Park in a pair of heavily armored Suburbans.

"Virgil, hey buddy – how's your _tenant_?"

"Sullen and quiet, as usual. An interesting study subject. Got a lot more polite when Rob brought him a Guinness though."

"Yeah, well, don't get too trusting." He settled down next to the window and glanced at Edgar, his arms elbow-deep in the cubby space, before he discreetly added, "Samuel didn't get where he was without a certain level of charisma – I promise he's only biding his time."

"Well, he can bide away, it won't change nothing for 'im. Got some info on the license plate you wanted me to run, though."

"Yeah? Got a hit?"

"Not so much, but better than nothing. The van's got a clean record, but it's registered as a fleet vehicle for a marketing company in Houston – Bartlett & Wells. They work pretty extensively with domestic producers of petroleum products, tending to specialize in promoting the sale of American oil."

"So… damn. All that tells me is that Sylar stole a van from some marketing reps on their way to a conference…" With his computer pressed against his belly Edgar took his seat, but kept his shoulders angled toward his partner, paying close attention.

"Nope – we thought about that one already, started doing some digging. If we could confirm that the company was missing one or two employees, I could get their names and a coroner's report – thought that maybe if a body had been found we'd have a location that would at least give us some clue to his movement."

"Except that same van has been seen in places like Chicago and my daughter's college campus, which suggests some pretty erratic and unpredictable movement."

"Sure, that's true… but here's the interesting thing: _it doesn't matter_. All employees were present and accounted for, _and_ – this is the _real_ kicker – their databases didn't show any evidence of a stolen vehicle. Which can only mean someone there _knows_ he has that van."

Noah straightened. "He's not working alone."

"_Exactly_."

"But… why a _marketing_ company?" He felt childishly obtuse – even as the question left his mouth he knew the answer.

"Well, it's one of two things. Either that firm is a front for an operation like the Company, and they're ridding the world of the Para-Human Threat by working him to their advantage, or the mastermind behind this whole mess is someone who has a close relationship to the firm and also has the same agenda."

Noah mentally catalogued images from the clippings still crushed against his laptop in the travel bag above his head.

"The Preservists… this _reeks_ of them, they've gotta be involved somehow… Okay, with that in mind, I can try to understand why he'd kidnap Claire, but why Gretchen?"

"Ruling out a case of mistaken identity?"

"Oh no, there is absolutely no _way_ –"

"Then I'd have to say the roommate was either the bait or a tool to get what he wanted."

'_What Sylar wanted_' was promising to keep Noah from getting any much-needed sleep on the plane. In truth, it had been robbing him of much-needed sleep for quite some time… years, if all was told.

"I can look into Neil Culbertson," Virgil continued, "the Preservists' spokesman, start from the top of the food chain if you really think Sylar has a a mutual relationship with his group and this company… I can see if the man is in any way affiliated with Bartlett & Wells. Rattling their cages might save some lives, put the focus on us for a while."

"That would be great, yeah, but be careful – a man like Culbertson has a lot of… _influence_."

"So he's evil, then? The usual dangerous variety?"

"Definitely evil, yes. A powerful string-puller – the only kind of man Sylar will tolerate enough to align himself with… although I don't anticipate the deal will work out so well for Culbertson in the end. Partnerships with Sylar tend _not_ to."

"So I should move quickly."

"If for no other reason than I wonder who else he's killed or kidnapped. Lauren's actively investigating some of the killings with her partner and I haven't got any details yet other than the fact that it appears there are some heads that have been opened up in the, uh, _typical_ fashion." The flight attendant gave him a double-take while assisting another passenger with the overhead compartment. "Look, I have to jump off here – if you can't get a hold of me, call Lauren – we're working together on this with some other associates you can trust. If you play your cards right, you could get yourself into some _paying_ work."

"Working for _who_?"

Grateful for the information he'd received, he didn't want to put a strain on their relationship.

"It's probably better you don't ask."

"Right."

He slid the phone shut, severing the connection, just before a trio of piping notes told him he'd received a text message from Lauren. Glancing at the display, he saw only four words: '_Weird stuff – NO BODY._' He squinted as the backlight from Edgar's monitor flashed in the low darkness of the cabin, mystified over his girlfriend's rather obvious loose end. Crossing his arms over his chest he lifted his face to the narrow portal separating them from first class where Mohinder and Molly were flying, having to make the superfluous upgrade in order to get a seat on the fully booked aircraft at the last minute. Lauren wasn't the only person who was missing something here.

"Marketin' company, eh?" Edgar broke in, starting up a browser, ready to begin a search. The man may have had a shady past (who, between the two of them, didn't really?), but he came to the table with an admirable work ethic. "Sounds dodgy."

"My friend, you are truly quick with everything," Noah replied on autopilot. His mind was swirling with questions as he swept his unfocused gaze down the aisle. Mohinder was in the States at the behest of Matt Parkman, looking for Janice and the baby. But where was Parkman _himself_? And why did this seem so coincidental? Why did he have the sinking feeling Matt fit into the puzzle somewhere? And _where_? And how on earth could a _witnessed_ killing turn up no body? Who would take off with something like that? And _why_? He'd stumbled upon something that had more than just embroiled his daughter and Sylar. He wondered what he'd find if he made a trip to Houston to investigate the premises of this dubious '_marketing company_'.

"Who'm I lookin' up?" Edgar interrupted his train of thought with another question.

"Let's start with Bartlett & Wells – I wanna see who they're affiliated with, whose asses they kiss and who kisses theirs."

"Sounds… delightful."

~*~*~

The fact that she didn't feel the pain meant absolutely nothing. Claire was still a human being who did what any human being would do if she had been carpeted with rapidly swelling snakebites by countless swarming rattlesnakes – she flailed and screamed in the instinctual sort of self-preserving panic that was honed by millions of years of evolution. Unable to escape, her mind was beginning to crumble under the suffocating weight of the horror – she was going to faint. And, as if to make matters inconceivably _worse_, a floating orb of light drifted down into the hole to actually illuminate the squirming nightmare she didn't want to see.

"_OH JESUS CHRIST!!!_" he shrieked, and she was plunged back into blessed blackness punctuated by the hard smack of his body flung flat against the wall in paralyzing terror. "Oh my god…"

"Sylar," she rasped through gritted teeth, "please do not choose _now_ to become a _big girl_."

"They don't have _rattlesnakes_ in New York, _Claire_." She'd forgotten he was a soft-footed city boy. "Just lots of rats… and yeah, okay, _fine_, occasionally someone's pet boa that got loose in the sewer –"

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!"

"ALRIGHT! Alright!"

He summoned another ball of light and hovered out across the writhing den of snapping, needle-fanged jaws. He jerked wildly with a gasping '_holy shit_' as one struck a bit too close to the trailing toe of his right Chuck Taylor. He trembled in place for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to reign some sort of control over his increasingly frenzied state of phobia. She didn't know what nauseated her more: the thought of the massive dose of oozing, snot-like venom sliding through her veins, or the sight of her father's stolen ability being employed before her very eyes by the man who claimed his life. And then there was the fact that she _needed_ him to use it…

And on top of _that_ was the hilariously ridiculous notion that two completely invulnerable people could be so idiotically scared of a bunch of silly _snakes_.

Pulling himself together, he reached out a shaking, tentative arm…

"Take my hand –"

…an arm that was ripped away – "Holy hell!!!" – the second he saw a triangular, reptilian head slither from underneath the cuff of her jacket.

"We are so retarded…" she muttered under her breath as she watched him convulse with the heebie-jeebies.

"Fuck this, we'll do it the old-fashioned way," he stated plainly. For the first time ever, she nearly sighed with relief when she felt his invisible grip wrap its unseen cradle around her entire body, lifting her effortlessly from the depths of the abhorrent trap. Feeling sluggish from a million healing wounds, every heartbeat replacing the blood in her body with freely flowing poison, she put her life in Sylar's hands and let her head loll forward, drowsily dropping her chin to her chest. When her feet touched something like solid ground again they wouldn't support her weight – her knees buckled and she was allowed to slump tenderly to the muddy earthen floor. Her skin was as clammy and wet as the enveloping cave walls and she shook with feverish tremors as the foreign substance invading her fighting circulatory system ran its dreadful course. The nearly constant background dripping was occluded by the rush of her pulse and her racing breath pounding between her ears. She fought hysteria when her lungs began to fill, making her feel like she was sucking air through a straw. Hot, dry fingertips brushed across her swollen, discolored cheek to tuck into the neck space pinched between her shoulder and her ear.

"Claire, you're like ice… this isn't normal. What's happening…?"

"What, you afraid I'm gonna _die_?" she spat, muscles seizing with what would've been wracking pains. "Leave you all alone to wander eternity all by your pitiful little self?" It was probably insensitive given he'd just rescued her, but she was too miserable to care. And he didn't answer her, sinking into a wordless sort of wounded gloom – she'd either stabbed the truth or touched a nerve. Or both. She coughed up a wad of something gross growing in the back of her throat as she curled her aching middle into a tight ball. "Rattlesnake bites aren't usually fatal, but I've got enough venom in me to kill a horse. So, this might take a little bit. But I'll be alright." She whined and twisted when she felt something wriggle under her shirt, but her state of exhaustion prevented her from taking any other action. She didn't fight when she felt his hand dip beneath the collar, index finger tunneling unnervingly between the confluence of her breasts, as the last of her attackers was withdrawn from the confines of the constricting article of clothing.

"_Fry you legless bastard!_" his irritated hiss echoed bravely in their close quarters as he threw the creature away and blinded them both with electrifying radiance, tossing spinning shadows off of the surrounding irregular surfaces as he cooked the thing alive.

"It's funny," she wheezed, the last of her strength ebbing from her they way the tide drains from between each grain of sand, "I learned in my biology class that snakes actually _do_ have legs… they're just ves… vest… vesig…"

"Vestigial," he supplied, his voice as silky and smooth as a creepy spider's web, yet providing her a strong anchor to which she could desperately cling. She was going to be fine. She wasn't going to die. No, she _wasn't_.

"Yes, _vestigial_." Her addled brain carefully processed the word. "The bones are fused… they never poke through the body…"

His response was to drape something warm and soft and somewhat heavy across her shoulders… probably his jacket, she realized. She weakly fumbled her arm around to push it away.

"I don't need this, I don't –"

"It's _cold_ in here, Claire."

"Then you keep it – I don't feel the cold."

"Would you just _stop it_? I'm trying to _help_ you, okay? Would you _let_ me? Just keep it, and relax – _fuck_."

She _had_ hurt his feelings earlier, he was sore and touchy.

"Why?"

"_Because_, it's _first aid_, stupid. I'm treating for shock." He sighed in a defeat to which he hadn't actually succumbed. "And if my mother were here, she'd smack me upside my head."

"Your mother should smack you for a _lot_ of things." And then, with a mind clouded by weariness, her mouth worked faster than she could stop it. "Your real mother or your adopted mother?"

The silence that crept over the walls like the glistening sheen of calcium-rich water was as frigid and stale as the air that rattled in her throat. Suddenly uncomfortable, she peeked through the slits of her eyelids and winked against his retinal assault. He was kneeling before her still, and the contours of his face and shoulders were laid bare by the brilliance he cupped in the hands he rested in his lap. He was drawn tight as a bowstring and his jaw was furiously clenched. He'd become, himself, a monstrous man-shaped rattlesnake – disturbed and aggravated, taut and prepared to strike. She hated when he got unpredictable like this. Just when she thought he might electrocute her ungrateful ass, he finally spoke.

"I don't remember my real mother. Well, except for…"

He blinked slowly and his mood deteriorated into something far more dismal, staring into nothingness as his well-shaped teeth chewed at the soft, fleshy divot of his upper lip. Without warning, as if attempting to hide from her scathing line of questioning, he extinguished his lamp. She didn't press him for more information, and not just because she didn't have the energy – she got the feeling he'd inadvertently admitted more to her than he'd likely ever done before to anyone else. In spite of her irritatingly irrepressible curiosity, she let the conversation dwindle.

After a few tensely quiet moments, she felt his fingers thread through the hair she'd mashed into the mud under the weight of her head, lifting it to slip a cottony, rolled bundle underneath. It smelled of detergent, deodorant, a tasteful hint of cologne, and something else decidedly male. This time she was too feeble to refuse him.

"You didn't pee all over yourself, did you?"

"…uh, what?"

"When I fell? And I broke the circuit?"

"Oh. Right. No, I managed to control myself, thanks."

"Good. Thank you for saving me… _again_," she offered, to lift his bruised spirits and act as a pridefully unspoken apology. "I forgot to thank you the last time. At the _college_."

"Don't sweat it. I owe you."

She was unable to formulate a reply as her consciousness was carried away instead on a wave of fitful sleep.

~*~*~

*** _in Hell, maybe a dream…_ ***

The street was as barren as a desert, with tall, stick-like lampposts forming a giant fence restraining clawing, skeletal trees and looming, ghostly vacant towers. The sky was as grey as the asphalt, but Claire still felt like it was high noon in the Old West, crushed styrofoam cups and other wasted scraps of litter tumbling across the roadway like scrubby tumbleweeds. She was startled when something warm and soft circled her right ankle, and she looked down at the same time she heard the muted '_meow_' to find a mostly white calico with an orange tail and a tortoiseshell splotch over both ears peering up at her with sharp green eyes.

"Hello, Headphones," she whispered into the whistling wind. The cat chirped a peremptory call before moving quickly ahead down the block. At the crest of the horizon she stopped and crouched low, as if she were waiting for something. Claire placed one foot in front of the other which prompted the cat to move again – she was asking her to follow. Claire was happy to oblige.

She trotted after the little darting animal as best she could, winding through dark alleys, abandoned parking lots, over fences and under overpasses until she came upon a nondescript chain-link fence where her diminutive spirit guide stopped and sat, wrapping her oddly colored tail around her delicate forepaws before lifting one to wash her face. Claire twined her fingertips amongst the links as she pressed her chest against the cool lines of metal, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. The building inside was sober and austere, as featureless as the lawn that ringed it save for a few old, gnarled, and impressively trunked oak trees opening embracing limbs in a scholarly stance.

The place was a _school_.

Just as the realization hit her, a bell as shrill and fragile as a distant memory sounded and the front doors swung wide to admit a stream of unidentifiable shapes. They appeared as diaphanous tufts of flame, like the kind that adorn the tips of birthday cake candles, jubilantly flickering and dancing as they moved all over the lawn in pairs and groups, socializing like children.

And then _he_ walked out.

Unlike the others, he was recognizably human – a young boy, probably twelve, close to thirteen. He was waifish and long, bearing the characteristics of someone who'd grow to become quite tall but probably from an embarrassingly late growth spurt, and his thick brow and dark eyes were obscured behind large glasses. His shoulders were hunched in a manner that screamed to anyone who'd survived their formative teenage years that he was begging to remain unnoticed as he descended to the last step and sat down, bodily tucked against a square cement column displaying a badly weathered statue of the school mascot. He removed a small, leather-bound journal from where it was clutched against his heart and placed it gingerly into his lap before he used one finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Producing a pen from a back pocket, he began to privately pour his soul onto the empty pages.

One of the milling flame bodies became aware of his presence. A spindly orange arm reached for a crumpled wad of paper and threw it at him, landing with a bounce in the middle of the book on the boy's knees. He flicked the detritus harmlessly away, but Claire got the feeling she hadn't seen the last of the treatment judging by the pink that flushed across his cheeks. He pulled his top lip into his mouth in preparation for the barrage he knew was to follow.

Unsatisfied with being ignored, the flame body approached the dark boy and the breeze lifted to Claire's listening ears a tiny, mournful skirl of a voice that chided with words she couldn't understand… with an admonishing tone she _did_. It was picking on the boy, and it was drawing a crowd. One by one, the attacker was joined by others of its kind, and their combined chorus of voices became a howl that blew like a banshee through the creaking branches of the ancient, leafless trees. Words began to pop with recognition like fleeting, bursting bubbles, things like '_weird_', '_creepy_', '_abnormal_', '_psychotic_', '_trash_', '_scum_'… she didn't want to hear any more but they kept coming, mingled up in phrases of untranslated gibberish. The boy did his best to pretend he wasn't listening, but was betrayed by the tears that had begun to trickle behind the angry reflections in the lenses of his glasses. Before long, however, he'd hit his breaking point – he slammed his journal shut and collapsed in on himself, dropping his forehead against the hard, brown cover and slinging his arms over the back of his head where grasping fingers tugged at his shirt near his shoulders. His hidden face audibly wept.

"But I told you – I can't remember my real mother!" she heard him wail into the muffled space of his body between fits of wet sniffles.

"Yes you do." Claire spun around, shifting her eyes back and forth across the sky, searching for the source of the disembodied murmur. "You remember one thing. What is it?"

"Leave me alone… I'm different now, I _promise_ I'll be good…"

She turned back to him in time to watch the original antagonist stretch out another lanky golden appendage to grasp a painful chunk of the boy's hair, thrusting his puffy, streaked face out into the open, exposing and humiliating him. And as if that weren't enough, that same fiery fist pulled back and hit the boy square in the nose, popping a crimson spray of blood through the air and knocking his glasses away, falling to the sidewalk where cracks like spiderwebs etched through the surface of the lenses.

And then the scene changed.

Tapping a well concealed reserve of inner strength, the boy sneered and stood, slowly and imperiously. He raised a threatening hand and for the first time Claire could truly see who he was as his features glazed over with a very familiar malignant gleam of murderous intent. With a flick of his wrist the nasty little flame body was lifted above the ground and its windy, singing cries reached a new pitch.

"Don't, Gabriel. Don't do it," the faceless ventriloquist mirrored the thoughts inside her head, making her feel like a puppet in a twisted children's after-school special. Before her eyes, all of the oscillating little candle people transformed into moaning, rotting zombies – their sightless eyes rolling, penetrating him with haunting accusation, their peeling skin as grey as everything else. Claire knew them though… knew their faces: she saw Meredith, Nathan, Jackie… Dr. Suresh… so many she knew, and others she didn't. They mindlessly rushed him, leper hands tugging and tearing at him, forcing him to face his own sins. His _demons_. They surrounded him.

"I told you I'm different now," he straightened his spine with courageous resignation, letting his arm return to his side. He didn't make another sound as he allowed them to devour him.

"NO!" Claire was surprised to hear herself scream, flinging a useless hand toward him, too late as they took him to pieces and whittled him down to nothing. When he was gone, they all disappeared, swallowed by the ground, leaving behind a lonely object that beckoned to her from the hard corner of the step on which it sat. Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of white caught her attention – Headphones had gracefully leapt the fence and was crossing the yard. When she reached the leather tome, she poked inquisitively at it with tickling whiskers. Finding her feet to be feathery light, Claire easily hurled her body over the barrier and joined the cat, taking the book into her hands and laying it open, caressing the dry texture of the pages that held Gabriel's secrets. In blue ink and unmistakable penmanship, she saw the same markings she'd seen on a blackboard not long ago during her waking life – a table headed with a capital 'C' and a capital 'S', detailing the similarities between the two warring individuals. The same original points had been made – both abandoned, both adopted, both immortal – but something new had been added.

'_Watched mom die._'

Shaken by this new revelation, she closed the cover and the grey world faded into darkness.

~*~*~

If she hadn't been aware of the muscle movement she would've sworn she never really opened her eyes. She was immersed in dense, velvety black so substantial she could believe it was tangible. Her fingers searched for pockets, looking for the one that held her phone. She felt large ones with a heft that seemed alien to her, then she remembered the fabric that blanketed her wasn't her own. Slipping underneath it she sifted through her own jacket, smiling when her fingertips curled around the device in question. She winced when she flipped it open, bathing the small, dank chamber in an abrupt dazzle of light. Across from her, miraculously, Sylar didn't stir – the even rhythm of his soft inhale and the long, slow puff of his exhale, uninterrupted, told her he was still asleep.

How he managed that, though, was beyond her. His body language, even at rest, spoke volumes of his discomfort. Seated upright, his arms were compressed against his chest by knees that were pulled up tight against them, and his face was buried between the bony joints for warmth. A restless shiver ran unbidden through the expanse of his lengthy frame – he was freezing cold, having gifted her two layers of his clothing leaving nothing but a simple white t-shirt to protect him from the humid chill of their underground environment.

Feeling better, but still a bit too weak to return to him his garments, she pushed herself to sit up Indian-style and was considering passing the time until he woke up playing Tetris when she heard some items in his pockets jingle in response to the motion. Insatiably intrigued, she withdrew the noisy objects to examine them more closely in the light.

His left pocket contained a very ordinary set of keys, bound on a chain with what was once a black eight ball, whose paint had all but chipped away over time. His right carried a wallet and a watch, which she was surprised he wasn't wearing given his fabled fascination with them. She flipped open the leathery billfold, finding forty-three dollars inside with a small contingent of change, three worn receipts whose ink had been bleached away through friction, an old movie ticket stub, a punch card to his favorite sandwich shop, a modest cadre of credit cards, and the holy grail – his driver's license. While she was fairly certain hers only displayed the middle initial, she found it very interesting he'd opted to print his full legal name on the stiffly laminated parcel of identification. '_That's something only a serial killer would do_,' she reasoned.

His middle name was Aaron. Which meant his initials spelled '_GAG_'. She clamped a hand over her mouth, unable to stifle the throaty giggle.

She held her breath when he suddenly snuffled, rubbing his face against the backs of his thighs before surrendering again to continued slumber. For a strange moment, he resembled the boy who'd just occupied the vivid dream from which she'd awoken. Once he was still, she lifted the watch into the phantom glow, turning away the glare to peer into its spartan face.

When she saw the name in stark white on contrasting black – the one that lashed at her with visions of torment and a ceaseless, merciless hunt – the priceless timepiece slid through her fingers and tumbled to clatter against the slimy stone. This successfully managed to rouse him.

She skittered around in the thin layer of mud for a split second until she thankfully retrieved the object, shoving it back into the pocket just before his sleepy, dark eyes rose to meet hers, instantly frowning at the renewed use of her cell phone as a torch.

"_Please_ tell me the indestructible girl isn't afraid of the dark…" he groaned as he stretched his kinked muscles.

"_Please_ tell me the infamous Sylar isn't afraid of _snakes_," she retorted just as easily.

"Touché." He rolled to his feet and produced a sparking blue lantern before moving away down the corridor.

"Where're you going?"

"Thirsty." His monosyllabic answers made it evident that his mood hadn't improved. He was only gone a short time, but the sound of his padding footfalls never dissipated – he hadn't gone far. He reappeared out of the darkness, having abandoned his electricity in favor of water since the two didn't prefer to mix, with hands cupped steadily before him. Each step he took was like that of a tightrope walker. "Here," he offered, holding a rippling little pool beneath her nose where it twinkled in the soft phosphorescence. It reeked of mud, lye, and sulphur. It was likely murky and teaming with amoebae or other microscopic organisms with fuzzy little flagella and… worms. _Definitely_ long, squiggly, freakishly blind parasitic _cave_ worms.

"Oh my god that's disgusting…" No sooner had the words fallen from her lips than was she splashed in the face with his entire payload. He stalked away into the void, leaving her to drip and hack, sneezing the contaminated water out of her nostrils. "YOU _ASS_!!!"

"Here," his voice ricocheted around them with a little more force than was necessary as he knelt before her again, initiating round two.

"You can't make me –"

"You know I _can_. You're in recovery and you _need_ fluids."

"But –"

"_In the mouth or in the face_."

"You are _such_ a shithead." He sloshed a little when he made a sudden movement in response to her reticence, but she was quicker this time, clasping her fingers around his wrist and arresting him before he could douse her again. "_Alright_, alright!"

The water's flavor bore no similarity to its pungent odor, tasting oddly pleasant and cool as it refreshed an esophagus she hadn't realized had become so parched. Ducking his chin to the side in an unusually shy gesture, the yellowy dimness did nothing to mitigate the blush that sprang to the tips of his ears. Obviously, he hadn't put much thought into whether or not she'd actually lay her lips against his fingertips… and he hadn't been prepared. Feeling disconcertingly inappropriate, she pulled away. Anxious to shrug off the spike of juvenile awkwardness, she yanked his jacket from around her shoulders and lifted it up to him with his shirt.

"I don't need these anymore… I warmed 'em up for you."

She climbed laboriously to her feet while he dressed and elicited an airy sound that meant he appreciated her lingering body heat after his wretchedly soggy nap. Wavering a little on her feet, she nearly tripped over the charbroiled coil of a slender body – the snake he'd barbecued earlier. The rumble in her belly protested against her good sense… but since she'd already drank the water, she didn't see why not.

"Hungry?" she asked, proudly presenting her spoils.

Slack-jawed, he gaped at her in utter amazement that she could be this serious about something so clearly insane.

"You can't be…"

"Of course I am! We're in Texas – these things grow like weeds, people eat 'em all the time. I've had it before, it's not really that bad – not fishy like alligator or frog legs."

"You're gonna make me sick…"

"Seriously? You've seen the inside of a _human brain_! What could be grosser than that?!?"

"_Gross_?!? The human br – are you _crazy_? Claire –"

"I can't believe we're having a gross-out contest _right_ _now_ –"

" – the _human brain_ is one of the most complex and ornate tools this planet has ever _seen_! It's the temple of the _soul_, Claire! There's nothing else like it! Even super-computers with multi-threaded, over-clocked, water-cooled processors can't do what it can do – not even with self-teaching A.I. chips, with all of their probabilities and logic – _none_ of them can replicate – none of them can _compute_," he made a flurry of flicks with his fingertips, "the concept of '_arbitrary_'! They can learn language but they can't truly acquire its _meaning_! They can be taught to paint and compose music, but they have no _appreciation_ for it! And do you have any idea how much _power_ it would take for a system to even come _close_ to operating like a human brain???" She could only stare at him, wide-eyed and stunned by his tirade. "You would need at least ten megawatts – do you even know how much that _is_???"

"…no…"

"It's the same amount of energy produced by an entire _hydroelectric plant_! And it's all up here," he tapped the side of his forehead, "all of those mysteries, confined by the porous, wafer-like barrier of a flimsy bone skull. Completely organic, mystifying in that its success is measured by how it operates in complete chaos, as opposed to the artificial, mechanical precision that's invented by the very same brain. And what else on earth could interpret something as intricate as genetic code – so exquisite, it allows for mutation, creating people like you and me… It might be messy, Claire, but it could _never_ be described as '_gross_'."

"Unless it's open and bleeding, and splattered all over the coffee table in the middle of your living room…"

Her indifferent and factual reply punched the air right out of him. He deflated like she'd stuck a pin in his balloon. But she was right and she wasn't going to say she was sorry.

"You missed your calling," she said instead, "you should've been an engineer… instead of a deranged nutjob."

He bent lithely at the middle to pick up her cell phone, snapping it shut when he twirled another orb into existence and sending it to her outstretched hand on a telekinetic zip line. Stuffing his free hand deep into a pocket, he leaned against the sweating limestone and crossed his ankles out in front of him.

"I graduated from MIT." She barely heard his hushed admission. "Was asked to apply for a prestigious assistantship with a fat stipend to pursue graduate work at Stanford."

"Oh my god, and you gave that up to work on _watches_?!?"

"_Timepieces_ –"

"Whatever. _Seriously_? Why would you do that???"

He started to say something, then pursed his lips, thinking better of it. He tapped one heel lightly, pock-marking the mushy earth, while he arranged his thoughts.

"I've never been… _competitive_. I prefer a sure bet. And it's no secret, Claire, that I have some… _behavioral_ issues…"

She saw what he left unsaid as clear as the light in the palm of his hand – he had been terrified of rejection. Paired with some of the passages she'd read in his journal, hidden covetously in the pocket at her side, she supposed it could've been a side effect of having been abandoned.

"Heh," he barked a cruel chuckle, "I wish I had a nickel for every time my mother asked me the same thing." The corners of his mouth fell, lining his face with a somber frown. It was true, Virginia had been hard on him. "Dr. Suresh had changed everything, but then he…"

And just like that, the conversation was over. His nostrils flared and he shoved himself off the wall, moving toward the yawning drop into the Shadowy Pit of Rattling Reptilian Death. Cautiously, he lowered himself to one knee, not willing to tempt fate a second time just to have another look. She would've been lying if she said the thought of pushing him over the edge didn't cross her mind… she sidled up next to him instead as he extended a hand to stroke the open air above the den.

"Do you feel a draft?"

"I wouldn't be surprised – those snakes had to come from somewhere… why didn't I think of that while I was down there???"

"Well, to be fair, they're snakes… so they probably snuck in through holes about this big around," he held up a hand to form an "O" shape about two inches in diameter, "and you were trying to be positive weren't you…"

"Yeah, kinda…" she replied, massaging her eyebrows. "You wouldn't happen to have some kind of weird snake-charming power, would you?"

"No, but I could disintegrate them if you weren't so much of an animal lover..."

She paused in consideration.

"… I did say they grew like _weeds_…"

"Shit. Are you kidding?"

"What?"

"I just… I just didn't expect that to _work_. Fuck."

"…_what_???"

His melodramatic sigh was thoroughly morose.

"You're gonna make me go back down there, aren't you."

Claire couldn't wipe the wicked devil smirk from her face.

"Well… you do _owe_ me, right? I mean, those were _your words_…?"

"I hate you."

**A/N #2 (because the huge one way up there just wasn't enough, right?): Ummm... is that some UST I smell??? Yeah, I think it is =D**


	8. Fresh Air

**********A/N: I apologize profusely for my chapters coming a touch more slowly... I've been experiencing some issues at home that have robbed me of my focus. I'm not a religious woman, but I could maybe use a little of it. On the bright side, though, I had some good angst to fuel some dialogue in this chapter, so my Sylar is a tad moody, but... he's not exactly known for being the most stable guy so I suppose it's kinda fitting. Fun research this chapter: more Texas topography, hindu gods, firearms, and Vietnamese names =D  
**

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**8) Fresh Air**

"Stop wriggling around so much."

"But… this is…"

"I'm trying to lower us down slowly so I can see where we're… where we're going – dammit, _stop_!"

"You're squeezing too hard!"

"I _am not_ – and it's not like you can feel it –"

"_Sylar_ I can't breathe!!!"

"You don't _need_ to breathe!"

"You are squeezing! Too! Hard! _I'm_ the one who got swarmed by them, remember? It's not worth – YEOWW _shit_! Damn. That was close…"

"See?!? If you'd shut the hell up and let me concentrate, I could maybe actually _see_ how close we are! I mean, I'm kinda workin' my ass off over here, using _three different powers_ simultaneously –"

"_And_ flappin' yer jaws –"

"You know, heaven forbid I try to be a good guy here. _Heaven forbid_ I even show a little concern for your well-being – I could just drop you right back down there on yer – OH JESUS! Yeah. There they are. Whose idea was this again?"

The cacophonous hum of what must've been a zillion rattles echoed around them, and countless glittering eyes reflected in the pale blue blaze sweeping over the pit, prodding the walls for any sign of a seam or crack – any anomaly in the matrix of the stone that would grant them some means of escape. Like a slight shift in temperature, a wispy puff of air curled up Claire's damp pant leg where Sylar held them suspended, she'd been too busy to feel it before.

"Uh, Claire… take a look around and tell me what you see."

"Lots and lots of snakes?"

"No, look _up_. Look at the _walls_."

The pit was a flat, snake-covered circle at the bottom of a deep shaft… a shaft that was bordered on all sides by smooth, rounded, unnaturally cut rock. In her previously panicked state of preoccupation, Claire had failed to take notice of the strange detail.

"This is man-made."

"Precisely."

Not anxious to turn her gaze back to the writhing mass of gag-inducing ick, her eyes followed the deliberately cut swath as it towered high above her head, lifting her gifted ball of light to bathe the distant ceiling in its brilliance. What she saw there made her jaw drop.

"Oh my god we are as blind as retarded bats – look at that!"

Her skin crawled as he swung close to her, invading her personal space while he lined his sights up with her pointing finger. Bolted and hidden amongst a native outcrop of dripping stalactites was a pulley system. From one end a thick cable threaded into a serpentine tunnel like a sheath, while from the closer end a series of four finely narrow cables, easily missed due to their diminutive diameter, scaled the inside of the giant cylinder, cascading down the perimeter like tiny clinging vines to where they were blanketed by the nest of venomous reptiles.

"To our credit," he replied, squinting to make out what also appeared to be a small electrical box on the far side of the dormant wheels, "we're in a _cave_… it's pretty freakin' dark in here. Even light creates a lot of shadow. Whoever put us here _expected_ us to be blind," he tossed over his shoulder as he ascended to have a closer look, stretching, like a rubber band, the acute orbit of energy that pulsed between the orbs they held in their hands. "Yeah, there's definitely wiring here, but no motor," he muttered once he'd reached the apparatus, "but we've got a receiver and a processor… it's like it's _remote_. It must talk to the motor in… somewhere in there, behind the wall… it uses _remote control_."

"Can you make it work?"

"I can make anything work." It wasn't smug or cocky – it was a statement of fact.

Leaning forward in concentration, he one-handedly removed the outer casing of the box and discarded it behind him. It landed on the shelf where they'd knelt minutes earlier. Amidst the veritable plethora of technical facts he carried with him at all times was a surplus of knowledge regarding RC devices – he knew exactly what spot to touch with exactly what frequency, altering the use of Elle's ability with a finesse the woman had never possessed. The very moment his small '_zap_' brought the machine to life, the hidden motor buried in the bulwark creaked and groaned, dragging the cables through their brackets in the limestone to wind around the pulleys and eventually be tugged out of sight.

Claire's attention was snared by the rising ruckus – a horrifying burst of angrily aggravated hissing accompanied the requisite squeak of the moving metal parts in a manner she found to be quite disturbing. Looking down she was startled to find that either she was sinking… or the repugnant floor of the cave was drawing closer to her precariously dangling feet by the second.

"OH! OH MY GOD PULL ME UP PULL ME UP!!!"

Her ribs were bruised again as she zipped through the air, but this time she wasn't going to complain – she was immediately grateful, even, when her toes touched the same ledge of sediment they'd only just left to begin their exploratory caper. Glancing back down to where she'd been removed, she could make out the minutely criss-crossed silhouette of a screen hauling the thick knot of agitated vipers up into the air. When they'd reached the top it became keenly apparent that they'd obscured an object underneath – the flatly carved expanse of floor was broken by a large, square metal hatch.

"I knew it! I _knew_ I heard voices when I found you! See??? Whoever dropped us in here – ten bucks says this is how they got in and out! And they covered their tracks with this nasty little trap, too, didn't they… so we couldn't follow them! But it's kind of a stupid trap, really… I mean, given who we _are_…"

"Does this mean you believe me?"

"Hmmm?" She hadn't even paid attention to what she'd said – she'd been too elated with the prospect of eventually seeing sunlight.

"'_Whoever dropped us in here_,'" he quoted her. "As in I didn't just _walk_. As in I'm not just making all of this up as some sort of elaborate _ruse_. As in I very much _didn't_ kill your friend. You believe me."

"Umm… I, uh… did I…"

"Shit, Claire!" he erupted with arm-waving indignance. "Go on – say it! I am perfectly aware that you hate me, I know very _fucking_ well that if it'd been _ME_ who fell down there I'd still be wallowing in agony while _YOU_ stood up here, pointing and laughing!!! Alright?!? And I'm not saying I'm entitled to your sympathy, I'm not asking for your forgiveness – but don't fucking _lie_ to me! Okay?!? You believe me! Say it!!!" His mood was as tempestuous as the changing wind before a storm, and he was as transparent as the resulting rain. He wasn't mad – he was _begging_. "Fucking _say it_!!!"

What he hadn't said about Dr. Suresh and his murder – the words he'd let drop like a pebble off the edge of the hole by which they stood – was that for an excruciatingly exquisite moment the man had given Sylar a reason to believe in himself, had blessed him with an ounce of the vacant confidence he'd needed to pursue the hopes he'd given up… and then he'd taken it all away. It had been gloriously painted in gaudy technicolor all across the canvas of the journal still pressed against her side. It had been all he could take – the limits of his threadbare coping mechanisms had met their floodstage, the ramparts had been breached – he just _snapped._ He became someone _else_… and he never looked back. If he could snatch his claws around one tiny vestige of vindication, maybe he could finally tie a long overdue bandage on top of a wound that simply refused to heal.

"I… I dunno what I believe, but I guess… I guess I don't know how else to explain it." She wasn't ready to give in to him, regardless of the peace he'd bartered with her treasured uncle, but she could at least confront him with logic – _logic_ was something he respected. "I know I heard voices though, and people don't just disappear. Well… _most_ people don't."

He sniffed a curt, sarcastic breath.

"Yeah."

His quick rage simmering into mute sullenness, he ducked nimbly under the hanging net of snakes and pivoted his slender body out into the pit, floating in mid-air. He had no other response for her, and for a second she thought he might expect her to fling herself over the side to reassemble her painlessly fractured bones at the bottom, but then he gripped her with a curious sort of gentleness and she glided like a falling petal until she met him by the secret exit. He never even touched the handle – one outstretched hand commanded the door to flip open with a resounding '_clang_', and they were blasted with air so dry and fresh it almost burned.

~*~*~

Noah Bennet would've enjoyed the pleasant, cloudless early spring sunshine if it weren't for the subject matter. That and the unsettling number of vultures drawing lazy, mocking circles across the otherwise uninterrupted vista of hatefully cheerful blue, riding rising thermals in search of dead bodies. Noah hoped he wasn't doing the same thing. Just because his daughter was '_indestructible_' didn't mean she didn't have her weak spots.

He'd made the drive across northern Oklahoma once… twelve straight hours of wrist-slitting, mind-numbing, bland, unremarkable madness. Western Texas was much the same: varied hues of brown and tan mottled by clumps of some universal species of prairie grass, mirages of lonely copses of trees on the horizon never growing any closer, poorly maintained barbed-wire fences enclosing carbon copied herds of multi-hued beef cattle, everything roofed by the same endlessly oppressive sky. It was amazing he'd lived there as long as he had.

"Of all the places I'd been when I was with the Sullivan Brothers," Edgar's easy timber filled the empty silence in the cabin of the minivan rented on the frugal '_Hands for Hope_' expense account, "I'd always wanted to return to the old American Southwest – it's so different from back home."

But to Noah, the scrubby barren landscape was a haunting reminder of everything he'd lost… not the least of which had been Sandra, accentuated by the complete dissolution of his family. This land was an old ache he was anxious to put behind him.

"The humidity is very similar to what you'd find in my country," Mohinder replied conversationally. "Perhaps not quite as thick, but close."

"Maybe the difference is population density," Noah joined them, trying to derail his train of thought. "The human element is often –"

"We're close!" Molly shouted. "If I pay attention, I can feel her… over there," a limply flicking wrist indicated a general direction. "We're getting closer to her!"

Noah quickly decided that joyful sky blue was a very lucky color indeed, and he was okay with it. And the gravelly soil always did breed a fine grape for wine… And Texas really _did_ feel like home… All reminiscing was halted by the sparkle of something white on the horizon. Recognition clamping his fingers onto the steering wheel, he brought the vehicle to a stop on the side of the road a safe distance before they reached the waiting menace.

"Well, look-y what we have here. It would appear we've found our missing white van."

"Wait here," Edgar offered, "I'll have a look."

"But wait – what if it's –" Edgar was already gone. "Occupied…"

"Molly, I want you to stay here, _stay down_. If anyone bothers you, you call 911, do you understand?" Mohinder rustled in the back seat. "If I'm not back in twenty minutes, I want you to call for –"

"Where do you think you're going?" Noah inquired in an attempt to put an end to what was likely developing into a grievous error.

"With _you_…" As if there had been any doubt. "He'll need our help, won't he? What if he gets caught? Noah, he's fast, but –"

"He won't get caught. Sit tight."

Escorted by a dusty blur, Edgar reappeared in the front passenger seat.

"There's no one in the van. There _are_, however, six guys huddled around a mighty big cave mouth in a gulch up the way a toss. Thought they was just out takin' a piss til I took another look on m'second pass – it's like they're _waitin'_ on something."

"They see you?"

"You puttin' me on? You Americans have a saying for spring weather, what was it… '_in like a lion, out like a lamb_'? They jus' thought it was another windy day on the ol' prairie."

"And to think I doubted you..."

"They got guns though, Noah. _Lots_ of 'em. And no sign of your girl…"

"I'd wager she's in the cave, which isn't exactly a tactical disadvantage."

"How so?" Mohinder asked. "We have no idea what we'd be walking into – who knows how many more guns are waiting inside that thing… It could be a trap."

"Of course it's a trap," Noah shrugged as he slammed a clip into his fabled .40 cal Glock Model 23 and began counting the rounds he had available for the shotgun he also planned on taking, "I'm banking on the assumption that the van isn't a clown car, and a small army of fifty people with heavy artillery didn't come pouring out of it."

"Um, how did you get _guns_ on an airplane –"

"I'm willing to bet that the six we can see is the six we're gonna get. But they _are_ armed, and I'm guessing they're also probably _trained_. So maybe you should stay here."

"Noah… you _do_ know I can _throw_ their own van at them, right?" This… was actually worth considering. "And the faster we find your daughter, the faster _I_ can get some answers of my own."

"Fair enough. Just don't get shot."

"Yes, please don't…" Molly pleaded.

"Don't worry about me," he told her, smoothing her hair. "Just keep hidden and we'll be back soon."

~*~*~

There had been no prior warning – the first clue the men received that told them they had company was a high-pitched, sailing whistle, like the kind that precipitates a bomb falling out of the sky. Promptly thereafter, a monstrous white metal mass crashed to the ground with a thunderous, shattering impact, flinging murderous glass shards in every direction and sending dislodged tires to careen haphazardly toward anyone too slow to duck. One man was hit by a flying projectile and rendered unconscious; a compatriot separated himself from the group and dragged the fallen man to the relative safety of the overhanging rock, leaving the remaining four to crouch with weapons drawn, anticipating their still unseen adversary.

"Guns on the ground – toss 'em where I can see them!!!" Noah called out, slightly out of breath having to run to catch up with their soaring rampart. He would never underestimate Mohinder Suresh again, and the bet he just lost made Edgar a rich man. Surly from the affront, he smacked the cold steel of his pistol against Mohinder's stooping knees, further annoyed that the younger man hadn't even the decency to break a sweat. "You know how to use this?"

"Point and pull the trigger?"

"Those little nubs on the end? They're called sights – if you use them, you'll be much more handy."

"Yeah, I got that."

The clamor of several weighted thuds rang through the cramped space in the enveloping landform, signaling that the guards had relinquished their weapons as they'd been ordered. As light as the breeze, Edgar zipped from their refuge to collect the surrendered cache of firearms and remove them to parts unknown – possibly a hay barn in the next county for all they knew. Noah slinked his body around the crumpled nose of the upside-down van, still managing to keep one corner between his vulnerable parts and anyone who might've been less than honest. Above the sound of Edgar's clouded return, as the Englishman slid his notorious knives from the scabbards he kept tucked close to his ribs, he heard one of the guards mutter some feeble reassurance.

"It won't matter, they won't get what they came for anyway."

Noah Bennet had made a hard, lifelong habit of not admitting defeat (which was probably why he was divorced). He was going to have to disagree. He whipped the barrel of the shotgun around the edge, lining up the likely ringleader in the front.

"This is an instrument of death, gentlemen – gory, messy death – it'll make some pretty big holes. _You_ there, what's your name?"

After a slight hesitation, he got an answer. It was likely false. He didn't care.

"Bill."

"Bill. Alright, _Bill_, here's what's gonna happen: my buddies here are gonna keep an eye on _your_ buddies there while you and me go in that cave, and then _yes_, we're gonna come out with exactly what I came for, we clear?"

"Crystal."

He hoped the easy answer wasn't just a way to lure him out into the open. Edgar, eyeing Noah with the very same thought written across his normally passive face, was ready – back braced against the van with his heels dug into the dirt, blades fisted like a barbarian at a dinner table. Willing to take a bullet or two to save his daughter – he'd done a lot worse, including dishing out a fair share of them as well – Noah sucked a gulp of air and took a giant step.

The deafening shot throttled his eardrums, and searing hot agony ripped a bloody gouge across his left shoulder – the unconscious man was awake again, but that fortunately didn't make him a good shot… even though he'd kept his gun.

"Dammit Autry!" Bill yelled as he and the other three hit the ground, defenseless, hands behind their heads. Noah brought the hammer back on the shotgun and winced, and from the corner of his eye a gust muttered something about seeing "how good they are at shooting a moving target." Taking for granted that his partner was faster than a speeding bullet, hence the hubris, Noah flattened himself back against the makeshift battlement and took his shot – Autry lost a hand. Autry wasn't having a good day. Staring down the length of the barrel, however, he caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. Autry's buddy had ducked into the cave… and had drawn out a crate filled with additional armaments. They were soon going to be outnumbered.

"Mo, buddy… we're gonna need you, I know it sucks, but… If it's not Claire, it's gonna be Molly someday…"

"I know." The ground they stood on was too common to ignore. Mohinder pulled back the slide on the semi-automatic and snuck to the opposite end of the van, whispering a small, Hindu prayer to Hanuman.

Bill caught a rifle that was thrown to him and the consequential firefight sent raging decibels straight into the cosmos. The staccato of gunshots was punctuated by the wet, gurgling scream of Autry's companion when Edgar suddenly materialized before him to spill his insides with a single slice before he could liberate any more weaponry. Oblivious, however, was Autry who was settling on defending his colleagues by shooting poorly with his leftover hand. Noah held his ground, exchanging rounds with Bill who'd taken cover behind a low boulder exposed through erosion by the bubbling spring, when Mohinder's phone elicited a happy little chime that was completely inappropriate for the situation. Then the man actually put down his gun to take the god forsaken object out of his back pocket.

"What the hell are you –"

"It's Molly – she's got company, she says more are coming… Noah – they'll find the van, they'll take her!"

"_Fuck_…"

"Keep these guys busy," a disembodied voice called as a blazing flash headed toward the open stretch of highway, "I'll get her."

"They must've radioed ahead," Noah surmised, "they must've known we were coming…"

He tried not to sound too dire – he needed his only remaining help to keep a level head. Sure, there were only five left and one was missing a hand… but with reinforcements on the way, any idiot could clearly see they were in serious trouble.

~*~*~

"Chocolate ice cream."

"Oh _shut up_," Claire moaned orgasmically before adding, "…maybe with some brownie bits or something…"

"Or a fudge stripe…"

"Yeah…"

"I could also go for a BLT," Sylar added contemplatively.

"_God_ I hate you… bacon so crisp it's almost _black_…"

"Uh, yeah – I like mine charcoal-free, thanks. And it's gotta be _Roma_ tomatoes, not the generic hothouse variety."

"Tomato snob. You know we're just torturing ourselves, right?"

He didn't want to dignify the truth by acknowledging it so he opted not to answer.

"Oh here we go, I've got one," Claire announced at the pause, unhappy with the prospect of filling the leaden quiet with the rumblings of their empty bellies. "_Pancakes_."

"Ughh…" he groaned and his hands flapped loosely at his sides. Yes, torture – why did she have to go and do _that_? "I could wholly subsist on pancakes _alone_…"

"With bananas…"

"Or blueberries – the big, fat fresh ones, never frozen."

"And lots of butter – _not_ margarine. The _real _thing."

"_Definitely_."

Claire scowled at him out of the corner of her eye. Just what she wanted – another thing in common with the psychotic killer: both abandoned, both adopted, both immortal, both watched mom die… and both prefer butter to margarine. _Great_. Why not just make macramé bracelets and start being _BFFs_ or whatever…? Fucking dickhead… the more she thought about it, the more she believed he probably thought of this whole adventure in the cavern as nothing more than a whimsical slumber party, and now she wouldn't be able to scrape him from her side… like she'd taken pity and fed a wild animal that, as a result, looked at her and saw its mother. But talking to anyone – even _him_ – was preferable to the blinding isolation that came with sensory deprivation, and oddly he was too ostentatious to evade. At least he wasn't sulking anymore… She wondered if this was how Peter must've felt.

They'd exited the snake pit to descend a long ladder made of steel rungs bolted into the bare stone. Claire had commented at the time that she'd found it odd they were going _down_ to go out, and not up. Sylar'd made the observation that they knew nothing of the topography above their heads and she hadn't argued, but that was before they'd come across a series of deserted lifts, not unlike the ones she'd used on family ski vacations. Now they were wandering aimlessly down a wide corridor, interspersed with random stacks of wooden crates containing lockboxes they hadn't bothered breaking into, their curiosity weaker than their desire to get free of their underground prison. Like bloodhounds with their noses to the trail, they were following the cool, bright sensation of clean air, letting it scour the musty earth from where it clogged their choked bronchial tubes.

With a start, Claire staggered when Sylar suddenly threw an arm out in front of her, halting her exhausted forward plodding. He was rigid with tension – something was obviously wrong.

"Did you hear that?"

He extinguished their lamps, submerging them into paralyzing blackness, and she held her breath, frozen by the rigorous intent to listen. Like a figment of her overactive imagination, she did, in fact, hear whispering voices. For an irrational moment she was gripped by a supernatural terror, and she squeezed her elbows to keep from childishly reaching for his arm. She should've known it wouldn't have been so easy – they were trapped in a cave for a reason, and there would have to be some last line of defense to keep them from getting away.

But then she remembered she wasn't afraid of weapons.

And she also had _Sylar_.

Fisting her palms at her sides, she squared her shoulders and prepared to face whatever their captors saw fit to dish out.

"What're we gonna do?" she hissed. "They've probably already seen our light… are we gonna fight 'em?"

"We may not have a choice," he returned in a tone that was too ripe with savage glee to be considered rueful. "If we feel our way along the wall we might keep the element of surprise."

"Great…"

She shuddered as his jacket's swinging zipper tickled her skin when he brushed past her in the dark, once again approaching far too close for her comfort. She was puzzled, however, by his weird display of chivalry, unnecessarily placing himself in front of her as they continued, trailing fingers for some tactile sense of sight down the surrounding clammy stone. With nothing else on which to focus besides the act of placing one foot in front of the other without smashing into any shrouded obstacles, Claire began recognizing other strange gentlemanly acts: the tender, self-sacrificing treatment he'd given during her brief convalescence recovering from a throng of rattlesnake bites… the timely rescue from a volatile and humiliating sexual assault… none of these things were like the man who'd abducted her and carted her off to some seedy motel only to puppet-master her into sharing a bottle of wine and letting him mumble sickly sweet nothings about eternity while… sniffing her hair.

Should she believe him? Had he _really_ changed? Was everything in the journal true?

Time stood still when her finger tripped across a cubed lump with a… was that a switch? Both hands clapped to her face to keep her pupils from leaping out of her eye sockets when they were flooded by a torrent of piercing light, traumatized by their lack of use.

"Who puts a light switch in the middle of nowhere???"

"I'm assuming the people who come here have flashlights," Sylar replied, wiping tears from where they'd gathered amongst his eyelashes in reaction to the abuse. "Whoa!"

A swift step lined him up before her like a sturdy obelisk, but not before she caught a flurry of motion scuttling away around a bend in the earth. She would've thought it was an animal if the thing didn't start crying out in some unidentifiable Asian language, possibly Vietnamese. Creeping around his side to peer into the shadowed cubby she saw a man and a woman, huddled together in explicit fright, the woman shrieking holy fury at the intimidating vision of Sylar staring them down. Her foreign words were laced with an additional ingredient, something Claire knew intimately having poured it into her admonishment many times before – she was branding him with accusation.

This woman had seen Sylar before.

"Hmm…" she couldn't keep to herself, "she sure seems to know you. Tell me who I'm supposed to believe _now_."

Sensing no threat from the cowering couple, she left his stoic shape to kneel beside them where they'd managed to tuck between two stacks of boxes. The man held the woman's sagging form as she collapsed in a way that suggested she wasn't just fainting from debilitating fear – she was _hurt_.

"Do you speak English?" Claire tested.

"I do, but Huong does not," the man answered.

"Is she –"

"She is hurt, badly – she was bitten –"

"Lemme guess, by rattlesnakes."

"Yes. We were trapped here with three others, but these men came at us in the dark and drugged us all, and when we woke up we were alone. We have been crawling on our hands and knees, trying to find a way out, but Huong, she fell…"

"I can relate."

"She is dying…" the man began to weep in earnest. It was obvious this woman meant something to him. Claire could sense the situation would soon spiral out of control if she didn't reign some sort of control over it – a desperate man was an unpredictable man. As diplomatically as she could, not wanting to cause him any more undue stress, she slid the woman's slim fingers into her own and resorted to introductions when he stiffened at the unwarranted contact from the distrusted stranger.

"Okay, first, I'm Claire. You are…?"

He eyed her skeptically, likely because she'd arrived accompanying a man who'd clearly caused them a great deal of anguish. Unable to see any other choice, however, he relented.

"It is hard for Americans to pronounce – most just call me Doc."

"Okay, Doc – do you know where she was bitten?"

"It was so dark, I cannot say… She was bitten many times…"

"My blood could save her," Claire murmured mostly to herself. "If I could just figure out how to get it in her system…" Helplessly she turned to Sylar but she couldn't get his attention – he was too busy chewing his upper lip (an idiosyncrasy with which she was becoming familiar) while thoroughly engrossed in the patterns his toes were tracing in the soft, loamy soil. His face was lined with a hard, unreadable expression she'd never seen him wear.

"I…" timidly the man spoke up, "I _copy_ things… If you put your blood in my Huong, it will save her, yes? You say this? If you give me some of your blood, I can make hers like yours."

So he had an ability – a miraculously perfect one. And perfectly _covetous_. Claire sat nervously on pins and needles, gritting her teeth for the eon it took Sylar's eyelids to slowly shut, effectively closing out the cruel world and its wicked temptation. She'd just been playing the Starvation Game with the man, and while she hadn't forgotten the cardinal sins he'd committed, she really wasn't ready to watch the killer emerge right before her very eyes like a werewolf transforming at the first hint of moonlight. Wearily he dropped his head between his shoulders and turned, arms crossed over his chest and his countenance brooding and grave, as he trudged away, allowing an easily more comfortable distance to spread between him and them. He was ostracizing himself. Knowing time was slipping away from them, though, she couldn't be bothered with his characteristic moodiness. She would have to be direct.

"Sylar, I need you to cut open my hand." He faced them and demurred as he stared at Huong with hollow reproach. "You'd be saving her life. Please? I think you owe her."

A sharp flicker of angry hurt marred his features for a split second before he twitched a finger and a deep incision split the center of her left palm. She cupped her hand to keep the precious liquid from spilling away while Doc placed his own hands over her healing wound. A pale, rosy glow filled the space between their skin, one that he lovingly scooped and pressed against Huong's delicate, fluttering breast, just above her heart.

"You think this will work?" Doc pleaded as he concentrated, altering the chemical makeup of the woman's entire circulatory system.

"My blood has healing properties," Claire replied, "but it usually needs to be infused. I think it will work – at least I _hope_ so." Feeling useless and awkward as she watched the process perpetuate without her, she kept talking. "Is she your wife?"

"She is."

"So how does she know _him_?" With her chin, she gestured at her unlikely travel companion, who had reverted to his introspective withdrawal, leaning with one arm against a crate, a light sheen of perspiration glazing a face that had paled to a somewhat ashen shade. Was she witnessing the difficulty of _restraint_…? Unsurprisingly, Sylar raised more questions than he answered.

"He killed her brother." Ah yes, the mystery only became more convoluted. "He cut…" The words were too heavy to leave his mouth, but Claire had seen Sylar cut before – she knew what Doc had meant to say. "After that we were kidnapped, and we woke up in this cave."

"The same thing happened to me – he killed my friend and I woke up here… Or at least that's how it _appears_."

But… so had _Sylar_. She couldn't believe she was entertaining the notion… but why didn't he kill Doc? Was it worth simply proving a point that he suffer the way he was in order to hold himself back? Why was Doc even alive to begin with, when Huong's brother was dead?

Why was Sylar a prisoner with his prey…?

Irritated with her confusion, she took the opportunity to gather more information even though it pained her to even consider that someone might be trying to frame Sylar, regardless of the fact he was a sensibly easy target. She didn't want him to be anything less than his usual guilty self.

"Doc, did you happen to see who kidnapped you?"

"Not really – they pulled hoods over our heads. I don't know how many there were… and I don't remember their faces… they're… _blurry_…"

Even her own memories of having been taken were smeared at the edges, like they were born out of a dream and not quite real. She spared a glance to Sylar who held one eye visible above his shoulder. He cocked a thick brow at her while his jaw was tight with bitter offense.

"Huong is afraid," Doc continued, "that he's here to kill the rest of us." Anything was possible. The Sylar Claire knew never made his motivations readily discernible, and to trust him for as long as you could blink was to own a very foolish death wish.

Claire became aware of a meek stirring at her knees when the woman known as Huong blinked her eyes open, but still clutched at her husband for strength. Dazed and calm, she hadn't quite reoriented herself to her surroundings, and she raked her fingers listlessly through her hair like an accident victim battling an amnesia caused by shock. Doc muttered something to her that Claire couldn't understand before profusely spewing thanks in garbled English for sparing his wife's life. Eager to diffuse the excitement she knew would resurface once Huong reconnected with reality, she stood and crossed to Sylar, wishing to assess his level of safety.

He angled toward her when she reached him, the top of her head meeting his chin, and his breath heaved from his flaring nostrils to bombard her cheeks as he towered over her. His bad mood was back… which was less than _optimal_...

"Look," she began, "before you get all mad and stuff, try to see it from my perspective: I really don't know what to –"

"No, really, why _should_ you believe me? Why _shouldn't_ you examine the evidence from all sides – I mean, it's only fair, right?" His tone was acid and his body radiated an alarming heat. "And who on earth would _really_ believe I didn't kill somebody? With so many witnesses??? And , this is _ME_ we're talking about after all… Right?!?" He was becoming belligerent – his gossamer thin patience had come to its end.

"All these people know is what they saw, don't get upset over –"

"_Upset?!?_" He took a challenging step forward and his proximity pushed her back. "I don't have the _right_ to be _upset_! What _right _do _I_ have to be angry – I'm _evil_ and _disgusting_, and deserving of this punishment, isn't that what you wanna say?!?" She brought her hands between them as a placating barrier.

"Please don't, I didn't –"

"Oh my god. You think…" He tugged at his eyebrows with sour disbelief. "You think I'm gonna kill these people – right here, right now – don't you?" He lined her up with a glare and thrust a deadly, pointing finger in their direction, making everyone jump involuntarily. "Think I'm just gonna open up their heads and splatter their brains everywhere, just because I'm a devious, lying _shitbag_ and this is all part of some ridiculous _master plan_ and _BOY_ have I got the _wool_ pulled over _YOUR_ eyes!!!"

She felt dizzy and powerless, like she was sinking in a freefalling airplane and could do nothing but hang on til the grisly, explosive end.

"_Stop it_," she tried. It was a mistake. His arm swung around, invisible fingers crushing her windpipe as he lifted her off the ground, showering her chest with crumbly dirt and pebbles as her head scraped up the wall. His eyes were furious obsidian, partially veiled beneath his furrowed brow.

"You might find it amazing, _Claire_, but I do have a rather extensive list of things I really greatly dislike. But what I absolutely cannot tolerate – what _really_ makes me cranky – is being _USED_. I'm not a tool, and I am _NOT_ a fucking _toy_!"

"No one's saying –" she tried to sputter through his chokehold without success.

"And I'm not a fucking _liar_!!! There is not a living soul on the face of this _planet_ who knows what I've been through!!! And when I find the _asshat_ who thinks it's such a great idea to fuck around with _me_, so help me _GOD_ I'll –"

"You'll _what_?!?" she managed to grind out, having mashed her heels against an irregularity in the earth behind her, relieving some of the pressure against her throat from her hanging body. In two words she'd efficiently managed to totally derail him. Lips parted and still quivering from the rush of adrenaline he stumbled backward a step, outwardly stripped of his malice and chilled by what he'd nearly admitted, repulsed at the beast that still raged within his privately sacred core. And he was wrong – Claire had a bound memoir concealed within her jacket pocket that spun a visceral personal tale of exactly what had changed Sylar's life. Or so he _claimed_. "You'll _what_? You'll _not_ horribly maim him? Just give him a little piece of your mind??? That'd be _so awesome_ because, I'm sorry, but that irony would just be freakin' _hysterical_." He rolled his eyes at her absurdity through a miserable haze of sorrow and shame. "Look, you say you've changed? That's fine. You didn't kill these people? That's _great_ – even better. But for Pete's sake, _put me down_ – you're scaring these nice folks and that's not really helping your case."

He lowered his wrist and her feet touched the ground again. She tried not to make too grand a show of massaging her sore neck.

"I'm sorry I blew up," he whispered, managing to catch sight of the touch as she dropped her hand, his eyes falling to burn holes into the ground from a face that was cryptically blank.

She couldn't believe her ears. An… an apology? _Really???_ And everybody… _lived_…? What kind of freaky bizarro world was this…?

"It's alright, I'm fine. I know you've got a lot on your chest… probably have most of your life. It's probably why you've done some of the things you've done… but for _crying out loud_, man, learn to take a deep breath and count to ten, will ya? It's not worth –"

She was interrupted by a percussive pounding bouncing off the walls and bashing her tympanic membranes. All previous hostilities were set aside as if they'd never existed – they locked wide eyes with each other.

"Is that…?

"Yup, sure is."

Travelling up the long passage to greet them like brutal sunshine and antiseptic air was the language of the outside world – and it sounded a lot like gunshots.

**A/N #2: There was a part I wanted to get to this chapter, but this really presented itself as a good cutoff point, so I suppose it'll have to wait. It'll make next chapter kind of exciting though =D And ALLLL of our characters will somehow manage to come together - we might even see the return of Hiro =D**


	9. The Enigma

**********A/N: Holy CRAP this chapter took forever to write! In my defense... it's a long one =D But with the warming of the weather I've been VERY busy outside =D Scuba season is starting up and I've been on my bicycle a lot lately doing the gas-saving thing by biking to work and doing longer distance travel on the thing for "fun" (did 50 miles a couple weekends ago, and a couple weekends from now I'll attempt closer to 60). So things have been VERY busy! But, rest assured, I've tried to put in a least a few minutes every day to try to get this thing out. I'm happy with this chapter though. Very actiony, and the precursor to good things for Sylaire fans in the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!!!  
**

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**9) The Enigma**

Peter dipped his head and shoulders under the steaming cascade spurting from the shower head, massaging tight muscles that were sore from fitful sleep… not to mention there was this twinge in his arm from having been kinked underneath him during the night – it had only just woken up (a tad slower than the rest of him) under the lovingly beckoning warmth of the streaming water. He sneezed, his ears popped, and his head throbbed. He put forth a considerable and convincing effort to rationalize that he'd slept until almost freakin' noon because he'd had a lot on his mind the night before and the coruscating slideshow of his thoughts just wouldn't shut down – that, and he was going to be working a late shift that evening, so it was probably best to go in well rested… or at least having made the attempt to do so. He told himself flatly that his sinuses were gunked up from early spring allergies and there was nothing wrong with him, nevermind the fact that he worked in a _hospital_. He _wasn't_ getting sick – he _couldn't_. And he _would_ wake up. He needed his strength today.

Today he'd find out just how big an idiot he really was. Today he would face his own naivety.

Of _course_ Sylar would've been eager to broker a convenient push for peace between the two of them – after three years of solitude the man's grasp on reality had stretched so far that it'd slung way past insanity to the point where it almost circled back on something sane, like a zen tranquility that still was edged with prickly splintered mania. The inescapable loneliness had also wreaked havoc with the man's sense of self, even going so far as to persuade the killer that he could change his ways, like a fearsome carnivore giving a vegan diet an ill-fated try if it meant having someone to talk to. And of _course_ the man had no choice but to temporarily lay aside his famous blood lust – in the absence of tempting, doe-eyed, unsuspecting prey (with the exception of Peter) he might as well have been the very same newly-vegetarian predator trapped on a meatless desert island.

But now he was back in the jungle, and old habits died hard – especially when they were just a part of his nature. Sylar couldn't be any less a murderer than Peter could stop being a Petrelli. Peter wasn't always proud of his heritage… and he supposed his questionable roommate felt very much the same way. The guilt that'd held them captive all those years had been as formidable as a brick wall, and had felt equally as real… either beneath the pounding slam of a sledgehammer or engraved in the shadows across Sylar's candidly sincere face.

He banged around in the bathroom, making a noisy production out of brushing his teeth and rummaging in the medicine cabinet for his deodorant, hoping the commotion would rouse the occupant of the adjacent room so that he could get this over with, even though he was certain the notoriously early riser was probably still out on a routine mid-morning run, avoiding the '_friend_' with whom he'd shared heated words the previous evening, further venting his lingering frustrations. Freshly shaven and loosely dressed, Peter re-entered the hall to find the apartment quite vacant.

He brushed the crumbs from a banana chocolate chip muffin onto his right pant leg as he padded barefoot out the front door, forging a slow, lazy path to the lower level en route to the mailbox. He paused by the exit to the building, entrenched in a mental monologue of words as he planned the proper way to phrase his questions without stoking the man's hostility, and he gazed through the frosted panes of glass bordering the doorframe allowing beams of hazy sunshine to heat the chilled ivory tile. Despite trying, he was unable to conjure the image of Sylar sitting on the front steps, people-watching while suckling a water bottle, eagerly awaiting continued conversation with his roommate. Sylar was nowhere to be found. Disappointed and a little agitated at the delay, he let one blind hand dig around in his mailbox while the rest of him was busy nipping at the muffin's clinging paper cup with his teeth. If his eyes hadn't been tilted toward his toes, he would never have seen the folded white square of paper bounce to the ground between his feet. Stuffing the wad of envelopes under his left arm, he bent at the middle to retrieve the fallen object. A flick of the wrist flung it open.

'_I didn't want to do it_,' it said, scrawled hastily in hashed blue ink. '_Please forgive me. Please help me – I'm in trouble._'

In the back of Peter's mind, tumbling amongst the fierce accusation, seething hatred, and bitter betrayal, was the last vestige of a soldier – or a little boy, he couldn't decide – who just wanted the fighting to stop… who still wanted to believe that this man upon whom he'd wasted his faith and his hopes was really innocent. Wanted to believe he hadn't been lied to by someone who vehemently professed to _never_ lie. That part of him was crushed, just like the crisp, white sheet on which the blatant admission of guilt had been delivered, crinkled into a tight ball by the palm of his hand.

But there was something else – '_I'm in trouble._' What did that mean? Did this change things somehow? Was there still something he didn't know – was everything not actually as it appeared? It was time to have that discussion. _Now_.

Stuffing the note into his pocket, he gulped down the remaining bites of his muffin before racing back up the stairs, careful not to accidentally inhale the sticky mush and choke. Once back inside his kitchen, he snatched the phone number left under an alphabet magnet (particularly the letter '_S_' – the shapes were purchased for young, visiting nephews) and reached for his phone, punching in the numbers with pronounced purpose.

From a clandestine location somewhere in the apartment he heard Sylar's cell phone ringing. It was highly uncharacteristic for the man to be without it. Following the sound, he found its source underneath a futon in the living room – the same one that had suffered a brutal introduction with the opposite wall at the hands of a pleading telekinetic the night before. He ended the call that wasn't going to be answered and extended an arm toward the device in question… when he noticed the marks streaking across the hardwood floor. He could still see evidence of where the piece of furniture actually used to sit – it hadn't been replaced to its original position. Close, but not _exact_. Suspicious, he straightened and swept an appraising survey over the entirety of the premises. His eyes landed on a painting hanging above where the futon had made its impact. It's lower-left corner had shifted almost – yet not quite – imperceptibly to the left by a narrow fraction of an inch.

This was also very unlike what he'd come to know of Sylar – these were neurotic impulses he would _never_ have left untended, not with his fascination for bringing order to chaos. And why would Sylar's cell phone be… under the couch? Like it had dropped and rolled? Peter was starting to feel like a detective at the scene of a crime.

"I hope we're not intruding, but the door _was_ open…"

He whirled at the familiar icy purr just as Tracy sauntered into view followed by her partner and Noah Bennet's significant other, Lauren. She smiled an assertive but friendly grin. "Let me guess – your new _buddy_ has conveniently disappeared."

He glanced at himself, still holding both phones. "Sure looks like it, right? But… I dunno. Things look a little _off_... There's some variables here that don't quite add up."

His visitor merely lowered her chin in response. The two women couldn't have been more dissimilar. Tracy remained unyielding where she stood, feet touching and hands clasped before her, holding her posture aloof and statuesque – she was content to let her presence fill the space, demanding he come to her. Lauren, on the other hand, was a slave to an inquisitive disposition and was indifferent toward formality – she was nosing around the countertops as if she were coming to a decision on whether or not she was interested in the apartment next door. But then he remembered his manners.

"Can I get you ladies something to drink? I've got some filtered water and some iced tea – unsweetened, but got that too if you need it. And you should try these muffins, they're really good."

Tracy didn't seem to require much beyond a glass of water, but this didn't keep Lauren from opting for the tea and sampling the sweet treats barely restrained by plastic wrap piled on a plate beside the stove. It was lunch time and the woman wasn't exactly the willowy kind who skipped meals.

"You know, it's funny you mention things don't exactly line up," Tracy began. "_Our_ case just got –"

"Holy shit! Tracy, you have to try one of these – they're like _sex_ but with a _banana_… did you _make_ these Peter?"

"Uhh, no I didn't." He wasn't going to confess where they came from – especially not after _that_ metaphor.

"As I was saying," Tracy continued, unphased as she accepted the glass handed to her by her gracious host, "and as we'd discussed on the phone, we just brought a witness into custody and her story really seems to implicate Sylar, but there's another piece I felt more comfortable mentioning in person – something that just doesn't seem to corroborate."

"That's an _understatement_," her partner tossed over her shoulder, depositing the leftover cup from the muffin into the trash before heading into the living room.

"According to Micah – and I think we all know how _thorough_ he is – this isn't an actual murder case."

"I don't under–"

"There's no _body_ Peter. _None_. _No one_ was removed from that house before we arrived. None of the John Does that were D.O.A. on ice in any of the hospital morgues matched his description. The coroner had no report to offer on the incident. There are no photographs, no DNA, no signs of a struggle, no other witnesses – Peter, there's not even a _blood stain_. It's like Barry Britton just vanished into _thin air_."

"Do you think your witness is lying?"

"No way. Academy award winning actresses can't pull the kind of grief she showed us – this is _very_ real. But that doesn't mean I have an explanation."

Muddled confusion knitted his eyebrows together and a sore, dreary sinus pressure threatened to return. What was building behind his eyes, however, was more than just a little fluid or inflammation – his brain was humming with even more questions than what had previously pestered him overnight, driving away sleep like a fervently energetic herding dog. People didn't just… vanish. Well, _most_ people. Specifically, people who weren't named Claude.

"This isn't like him."

"_Exactly_."

"But that doesn't mean he's not involved," Lauren called from out of sight.

"She's right," Tracy agreed, "which is why we're here. We were hoping you might let us have a look around, see if we can't find something that might give some clue to his movements, or his associations."

"By all means," Peter replied, rubbing sleepily at his right temple, thinking it might not be so bad to have someone else dig into the enigma for a while – particularly Lauren who, for all intents and purposes, seemed to have gotten a head start on the request. "Be my guest. Let me know how I can help."

The intrusive snoopings of the two suited women did not go unnoticed by Emma when she arrived, bearing a sack brimming with deli sandwiches and assorted fruits and vegetables, intent on surprising her man while on her lunch break.

"What's going on?" she signed as Peter greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, hungrily emptying her speaking hands of their delectable cargo.

"Tracy and Lauren are investigating Sylar," he answered. "Here, check _this_ out." He placed her bag on the counter and pulled the lump of paper from his pocket, flattening it to make the words printed across its surface more legible.

"'_I'm in trouble…_'" her lips sounded. "Have you talked to him?"

"I haven't. He's _missing_."

She paused, considering what he'd said.

"That's a clever choice of words." Just because she couldn't _hear_ language didn't mean she lacked a more than capable understanding of it. And it was true – if he'd simply said '_He's gone_,' the implications would have been quite different. He wasn't sure if the move was a conscious one or not.

"I don't really know if –"

The sentence was halted in mid-thought by the startling toll of the house phone still dangling from the hand that hung by his side. When he answered the call, his eardrum was pummeled by the sound of rushing wind, someone in the background stringing a litany of Hindi curses, and Noah Bennet's frantic shouts begging for immediate assistance.

"I don't care what you have to do," he yelled, "whatever it takes, we need you to meet us in Midland, Texas!!! I don't have time to explain – I've got some severely injured people here and I can't take them to a hospital – you're all I've got, buddy, _please_ – we need you!!!" His somnolent psyche harkened back to a time when his life was much less complex. He wished he'd never met Noah Bennet.

"Noah, slow down… what do you –"

"We found Claire, Peter."

_This_ caught his attention. Then the hook followed the line and sinker.

"_And_ we found your roommate.

* * *

Noises like bullets – _from_ bullets – ricocheted down the widening corridor, causing Claire to fear that they would soon receive an unwelcome visit from one of the searing objects in person. Accompanying the ear-splitting percussion, however, was the heady promise of some seriously necessary sunlight, and every step they took brought them closer. Absentmindedly, Claire bunched her shirt in her fist over her heart as she crept forward behind Sylar, apprehensive from the commotion and the prospect of escape, but despite his towering frame he couldn't eclipse the glow sneaking around the bend in front of them – a soft, pale yellow ray that carried a strength and a grace that could never be mimicked by an artificial light source. She could see it spreading in a wide, diffuse beam between his cautiously treading feet, and her eyes grew wide with a sudden acute longing to launch herself forward and soak it up like a crusty dry sponge.

Catching the sight of flesh out of the corner of her eye, she came to a screeching halt with her left breast mere millimeters from the hand Sylar held outstretched behind him, inattentively signaling for her to stop – she had to admit the gesture was quite… effective. She scowled at what would've been a completely unwarranted grope, but relaxed when she saw his eyes were still locked on the terrain before him.

"Stay here."

"You should let me go," she replied, logic leaping into her mouth before her brain could catch up. He turned and made a face like he was about to chide her patronizingly – as usual – but she stopped him with a finger. "Don't. It makes sense. The people who trapped us here are fighting someone out there, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Right?"

"This is the real world, Claire – I don't think it always works like that. Besides, what difference does that –"

"Well, let's say this time it does."

"Oh come on – that's just stupid. Why would I do that?"

"_Because_ I can't think of many of _my_ friends who wouldn't want to shoot you."

"Yes, this is a good point, sure, alright – but you can't _possibly_ know who's out there. And as a shapeshifter, I'm a little better for reconnaissance so –"

"You know, I'm _really_ starting to get sick of this… this _MAN_ thing you've got going on…"

"_Man_ thing???"

"Yes, _man thing_! Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! At first, sure, it was endearing even if it was a little creepy, but now it's just getting annoying!"

"What the hell are you –"

"Your weird," she wildly flapped her hand in the general direction of the area below his waist, "penis _testosterone _thing! You're just like my _dad_!!!"

"_HEY!_" His eyes gleamed with dangerous retaliation, and it was his turn to raise a finger, "don't you _DARE_ –"

"_SYLAR!_ _I CAN'T GET HURT!_ I don't _need_ a bodyguard!!!" The Vietnamese couple watched the escalating exchange with a mixture of curiosity and dread. "And who do you think they're here to rescue, huh??? _YOU_?!? Or _ME_!!! Or maybe even _them_! Do you _really_ think our rescuers are gonna _get_ that they're in the right place when they see _YOU_ waltz out there?!?"

He simmered and glared menacing, bloody daggers at her as he chewed his lip, breath heaving through his nose and body thrumming in white hot defeat.

"I made a decision," was all he could manage to growl.

"You made a _decision_. Just like that. Just because I'm a girl, and you're a boy, so –"

"S_hit_, Claire! Don't make this about _that_!!!"

"Then what is it?!? Because opening doors and pulling out chairs is one thing, but –"

"I _decided_ –"

"Or is it because you're afraid to be left alone with these two?" She jerked her chin at their spectators. "You're afraid of what you might do if I'm not here to babysit –"

"I made a decision about who I want to _BE_!!!" The enigmatic confession sliced a wedge of silence straight through the mounting tension, sucking the air out of her lungs. He lifted an arm and let it listlessly smack his thigh, punctuating the hush with a small echo. "That night. At the carnival, just like you. I made up my mind, and I drew a line in the sand. Just like you decided you were gonna be the savior that dragged our kind out of the shadows and into the light…" he gestured grandly at their surroundings, "an irony that's not lost on me by the way… I decided I wasn't going to be a monster anymore. I was going to be a _protector_. You wanna just be '_Claire Bennet_'? Then I think you know where I'm coming from."

He was right, she did know. And if it hadn't been for that, then it would've been for the same doleful tale spun in the collection of pages slowly swinging against her hip. But that didn't make her wrong either.

"Look. I'm not saying I believe everything you've said since we got stuck here – because, I mean, you'd have to admit that'd be pretty tough, wouldn't you? After everything you've done? And not just to _me_?"

"I know… yes," he nodded somberly.

"Alright. But yeah… _yes_, I guess I can kind of relate. But what if that's my dad out there? I mean, think about it: if Gretchen's as '_perfectly peachy_' as you claim, and everything that I saw you do to her really is some sort of _illusion_, then what's spinning around in _her_ head? What did _she_ see? What if dad talked to her? That's not that unrealistic, is it?"

"Umm, it's a little stretch, yeah…"

"No, it's not. So what's he gonna do if –"

"Claire, you _still_ don't know he's out there –"

"_What's he gonna do_ if _YOU_ walk out there? What's he gonna think? What would _anyone_ think at the sight of you?"

He remained sullenly quiet.

"And it's not anything to get pissed over, so just stop – it makes _sense_ – it's just the way it _is_. Besides, Mr. Protector, these people _here_ need you more than I do. I can't keep them safe, but _you can_. Would you do that? _Please_???"

He sighed his reluctant acquiescence – he wasn't exactly an idiot, and she unfortunately did make an excellent argument.

"Fine. Whatever. _Go_ get shot."

"It doesn't hurt –"

"_I know_."

"And you hate being shot, so –"

"I said _I know_! Just go!" Crossing his arms over his chest he tilted back to lean against the wall and forcibly lengthened his body in a manner that was supposed to seem casual but failed laughably. "Everything will be _fine_ here."

Grateful for his nebulous acceptance and wanting to get out of sight before he changed his mind, she lifted her head high to face the firing squad and bravely stomped past him to begin her parade march toward the light at the end of the tunnel, and the battleground it contained. Unable to resist the final parting jab, however, his voice arrested her one more time.

"You really should just say it though."

She should've foregone the dramatics and ran, instead of walking. Her hair feathered down her back as she craned her neck toward the ceiling, seeking patience in the ancient stalactites, cringing at what was certain to be a few seconds of her eternally endless life that she'd never get back. "I'm not gonna ask." She didn't need to, she already knew the answer.

"You _really do_ believe me. I _know_ it."

She pivoted at the hip to regard him with flat expressionlessness. The last thing she saw before rolling her eyes in silent reply and flipping her hair as she resumed her promenade was Doc and his wife pulling each other close, looking very much like a pair of sheep being left alone with the big bad wolf.

After rounding the bend in their path Claire didn't have far to walk before all traces of darkness were banished and splashes of earthen color had been reintroduced to her faded eyesight. She didn't know why she was so afraid – perhaps it was the noise that set her on edge, or just a simple genetically encoded piece of human evolution, but her breath came in tiny spurts, her shoulders were taut with the impetus for flight, and she hadn't quite yet let go of the front of her shirt. Well, not before she saw the open crate by the yawning mouth of the cave, spilling its innards as if it had been knocked over in haste. Weapons of a variety of different calibers lay strewn across the muddy clay, their immediate use serendipitously facilitated by the accompaniment of a rather large cache of corresponding ammunition. She found a .357 with a grip that didn't exceed the limits of her petite build, loaded it, pulled back the slide mechanism and released the safety. She handled it just like her daddy showed her. Her shirt was a wrinkled but forgotten security blanket.

She held her breath as she snuck forward but froze when the firefight abruptly ceased. Over the sound of trickling water and men panting she could hear the buzz of too many flies… swarming ravenously over the disemboweled body of a man only a pace or two away from her. She covered her mouth as she tried to stifle her gag reflex, horrifyingly aware of the precariously slim radius she'd placed between herself and her captors, and in spite of her new gun, her healing ability, and her rescuers (if they were still alive), she felt sure she was still outnumbered. She bodily spasmed at the crackle of a hand-held radio.

"They're not on this side of the van – they're _inside_ it, think they crawled in through the busted windshield. And there's only _two_ of 'em."

"Perfect," cooed the returning voice, reaching her from some outcrop of rock ahead and to her left, "like two shrimp in a pot. I got something for _them_, then – this stew's gonna _cook_."

A shower of gravel announced the man's approach, and she flattened her body against the leeward side of the entrance, concealed in a nook where the light wasn't as strong – she was easily missed. He entered the cavern and crouched before the uncovered crate, rummaging until his hefty hand withdrew a small but unmistakable item. He was going to toss a grenade into the vehicle where her two non-enemies had taken cover. Involuntary instinct took over and guided her arms, elbows quivering, until she held them out in front of her, handgun ready to fire. Her finger shook as it coated the trigger with nervous sweat. She couldn't do it, no she couldn't, she _couldn't_ shoot him… but she couldn't let him harm anyone else either. Her back was against the wall, in more ways than one, and her brain raced with terror, blood, and regret.

"Oh yeah, _this_ oughtta do the trick…"

One thick digit curled through the loop of the pin, ready to yank it out. That was all it took. She squeezed and the gun went off.

"OH SHIT!!!" the man's cries filled the passageway, undoubtedly cutting the threadbare restraint on Sylar's tenuous patience. "She shot me in the _ASS_!!!"

A sickly pale face, beaded with labored perspiration, peeked into view before she saw the rest of him, stomach lurching when she realized one of his hands had met what was obviously a grisly end. He leered at her over the wailings of his writhing partner.

"Where do you think _you're_ goin', little honey?" Something in his tone… She was briefly blinded by a flash of lurid memory… of reeking breath sticking to her eyelashes as a roving hand fumbled with the button on her jeans… "Now, you just get right on back in there, girl, me 'n Bill don't wanna have to hurt you." His good hand had a large gun pointed at her belly, while off to her left Bill was crab-walking to keep off of his butt, but hadn't quite found the muscle strength to lever himself to his feet. This did in no way mean, however, that he was unarmed. While he was too unsteady to make a good shot at her head, the weapon he was waving around haphazardly would've taken a sizeable chunk out of her chest just fine.

None of this, of course, meant anything to her. She was still just trying to figure out if she was the kind of person who could pull the trigger again.

"You _can't_ hurt me," she challenged, thinking that maybe she could if it were in self-defense.

"Think so, huh? Because _you_ don't look like much more than a little –"

A gust of black smoke billowing in a dense cloud from somewhere down the tunnel choked him speechless and spun Claire around on her heels, squinting against the unexpected blackness for a source. An orange flicker, like the final dregs of a smoldering campfire, split the haze before growing into a flaming torrent of immolation, sweeping down the shaft like the engine of a fiery freight train. A wicked smile lit her face as she ducked away from the churning flames, and the scattered ammunition that littered the ground began to pop like nest full of firecrackers. Bill and his one-handed buddy fled for their lives, neither of them doing much more than stumbling and somersaulting through the craggy streambed that exited the cave. A form began to materialize after the blazing fireball exploded up into the sky, sending the scene outside into a state of scrambling chaos. The tall shape took three cocksure, swaggering steps before coming to a stop as the ashes cleared.

"Say hello to my little friend," Sylar smirked lasciviously.

"I thought you said you hadn't picked up any new abilities, Mr. Believe-Me," Claire accused as she picked scorched flakes of crisp material from the sleeves of her singed jacket.

"Wasn't me," he replied with a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the small Vietnamese woman behind him who was busy fastidiously scrubbing some sort of charred residue off of her lips with the back of her dainty hand. "Apparently, a fire-breathing dragon lives inside her body."

"We were ordered to keep you freak bastards alive," interrupted a voice obscured by the escarpment, "but we are authorized to use deadly force where necessary!"

"'_Deadly force_…'? You hear that? That's _hilarious_."

"So why don't y'all just go right on back inside and we'll deal with you inna –"

"Fuck off, you assclown – why don't you just bring it!!!"

"_Sylar – what are you doing_-"

"Do _YOU_ wanna go back down there?!?"

The glint of steel in the sun caught Claire's eye.

"Alright, you demon fuck – you wanna piece of this? I'm more than happy to oblige!"

Sparing a glance, lips still parted in mid-retort, Claire watched Bill and the one-handed man simultaneously swoop around and raise their weapons. Behind them were three other men who had given up continuing the assault on the overturned van, which was lying in a crumpled heap where the gorge widened into a typical Texas prairie plain. They instead devoted their concern toward the much more paramount threat lurking at the threshold to the cave. Bill and his friend, however, never got the chance to discharge a single round, even though the infinitesimal span of time that hung between them was as heavy as a climatic pause.

"See, I don't kill people anymore," Sylar flatly stated into the turgid calm, laden and charged with static like the summer sky before a brewing storm. When his fingers twitched the moment broke, pierced by shrill shrieks of agony as both men each lost an arm, handguns plummeting limply to the ground with the wet slop of severed limbs. "I just _disarm_ them." Claire curled a lip over her still gaping mouth – she didn't quite appreciate his sense of humor.

Pointedly ignoring the way the little creek was babbling off into the water table a rusty, bloody shade of red, the three remaining shooters, unwilling to part with any segments of their own bodies, promptly relinquished their guns to the ground and backed away in surrender. In an effort to quickly ensure their rapid departure, Sylar wasted no time in telekinetically hoisting the weapons into the air, spinning them a fickle one hundred eighty degrees to take an unnaturally steady aim at their previous owners.

"Sylar, _don't_ –"

"_Relax_ – I _said_ I'm not gonna kill them."

"Well, don't tell _THEM_ that!"

"What difference does it make – they're not gonna… uh…"

A blustery squall of dust surged across the open flatland like a windy tidal wave, carrying a contingent of two more white vans dashing toward them in its wake. Huong brazenly stepped up to Sylar's left shoulder and spit a spark into her palms where she rolled it into a malleable ball of flame, ready to be thrown should circumstances demand it.

"I have never used this before," Doc confided fearfully as he selected a small, .22 caliber semi-automatic from the crate and fished around for a magazine that would fit… finding most had been expended by his wife's earlier conflagration. Reaching for the gun that Claire still pressed down the length of her thigh by an arm that ached with rigid anxiety, he used his ability to transmute the unloaded weapon he held into something more useful, identical to hers.

Men were jumping out of the approaching vehicles before they even slowed to a stop, adding a supplementary force of fifteen to the paltry, cowering three, subjugated with their hands in the air by Sylar's unpredictable mercy. Without hesitation they all dropped close to the ground, relying on meager topographical features for inadequate protection, and opened fire. Sylar's hovering arsenal crashed to the ground when he made a split decision – he pitched his arms out before him and firmly planted one bent leg behind, bracing against the battering impact of hundreds of pelting bullets, deflected by his invisible shield as a sheen of moisture glistened across his furrowed brow. No longer dumbstruck, the three unarmed men scrambled for their weapons.

"Gentlemen, you were _much_ better off as you were!" called a voice that instantly plucked a tender string in Claire's fiercely beating heart – a voice she could pick out anywhere as nothing more than a whisper in a crowd.

"Daddy… See! I told you!!!" She smacked Sylar's shoulder, though he was so busy she doubted he really noticed.

Noah Bennet's head and arms protruded from the rear of his makeshift bunker, pushing out from beneath the weight of one back door he'd allowed to rest stiffly across his shoulders. He managed to dodge a flurry of bullets as he easily and efficiently dispatched the three gunmen between him and his daughter. Claire stared helplessly across the field, however, behind the unrelenting cavalry, as the driver's door of one white van flew open to admit the stocky mass of a man in a smart, grey suit. With both elbows supported by the roof of the vehicle, he lovingly cradled the sleek forestock of an M24 Sniper, drawing a steadfast crosshair on the back of Noah's exposed head.

"_No_…"

Everything that came after seemed to happen in slow motion, the thunder of her own raging pulse dulled by an eerie, muted sort of serenity.

"_GET DOWN!_" she heard Sylar cry from what felt like across the planet. Her body reacted without waiting on her sluggish brain, teeth rattling when her chin bashed against the grubby stone. The stars cleared from her eyes just in time to see Sylar slice one fist through the air as if he were pitching a baseball. With a startled yelp her father cartwheeled like a boneless rag doll in a broad, looping arc away from the van to roll to a bruising stop in the middle of the tainted creek bed. Distracted and vulnerable, Sylar accidentally dropped his telekinetic wall and was blasted off his feet by the sheer number of penetrating projectiles that punched holes through his arms and torso. He landed on his back when he hit the ground. He didn't get back up.

Noah didn't have time to gawk in disbelief at his unlikely hero. He swiveled on his butt and kicked up water and stone until he got his feet underneath him, firing a ceaseless barrage of gunshots until he tucked himself against the same rocky outcrop that had hidden Bill… before the man lost consciousness to blood loss like his comrade. Claire clambered to her hands and knees to scoot her way over to her father, but was tugged to a rough halt by a tiny, blackened hand that was stronger than it appeared. Huong's smeared and tearful face swam across Claire's field of vision, sobbing a chorus of Vietnamese jibberish that couldn't possibly make any sense to any born-and-bred Texan. Submitting herself to be led, finding body language to be universally understood, she joined the woman next to Doc who had slumped against the wall and slid, bringing his knees to his chest where they were covering a rather frightening gut wound. Doc's reflexes hadn't been fast enough when Sylar'd essentially ordered them to hit the deck – he was in serious trouble.

Gulping air down a throat that was regurgitating a rising panic, Claire rose to a kneeling position to scan the wide scope of their vicinity, truly absorbing for the first time just how dire their situation had become. They were gravely outnumbered, badly wounded, and running out of ammunition. Numbed by hopelessness, the gentle tap of the gun still dangling from her slack fingertips carried her away to another place and another time… on a bridge, with the Haitian… Her father had taken a bullet to the belly and had risked drowning in a swift river below after he'd plunged into its chilling current… He'd done it because it _had_ to be done. He'd done what he _had_ to do. With a small sigh of resolution, she leaned to pick up the gun that matched her own, abandoned and forgotten when Doc had used both hands to clutch at his bleeding middle. She stood, straightening to her full height with a loaded weapon in each hand, and she did what _she_ had to do.

She walked out onto the battlefield.

She was not a good shot: with all of her studies, her extracurricular activities, and combined with her innocent youthfulness, to say she hadn't exactly gotten a whole lot of target practice was no exaggeration. She did manage to snare the focus of the violent mob, however, and she couldn't quite stifle the bubble of conceited glee that jiggled her insides when the eyes that lined her up in their sights widened at the spectacle of bullets harmlessly passing through her regenerating body. She was unstoppable, and she was out to get them.

When she was getting low on ammo and she was beginning to contemplate picking up the weapon left by the previously-one-armed (currently-no-armed) man, a sudden commotion originating from the dilapidated van in the middle of the combat zone briefly disrupted the fight. The wreckage that she'd thought had been unoccupied the moment her father had been unceremoniously removed from it… evidently _wasn't_. As if taking on a life of its own, it rocked back and forth at alarming angles until it teetered forward and rolled like a barrel with surprising vigor and velocity toward a crowd of fleeing shooters. It successfully creamed three of them before bashing into the side of the grey-suited sniper's vehicle, which was furiously busy spraying gravel and dirt in a mammoth shower as its wheels tore for traction in a tardy attempt at escape.

"Glad to see things are going so well here," a disembodied voice taunted in her ear. Guns shining in the blessed sunlight as she whipped them around searching for the unseen speaker, she whirled at the sound of frenzied shouts and the unfortunately familiar gurgle of a body being impaled. A shimmering miasma of twisting blades and gory hemorrhage mowed through four more men as they all knelt and did their best to take down a target that was simply moving too fast for them to see.

"That'd be Edgar," Noah grunted as he picked off two more from his deficient vantage point. "Oh, thank god he's back…"

A harsh, vengeful war cry came from over Claire's left shoulder. While she was busy emptying her payload at the backsides of the surviving six as they retreated toward the skidding van, Huong made one final appearance, throwing a massive column of flame that chased them like a rippling serpent, ensuring none of them would be brave enough to renew their foolish engagement. With the roar of a madly revving engine, the enemy sped away over the horizon allowing a ringing, deafening quiet to coat them like a blanket. Stunned and breathing heavily, Claire turned a slow circle to take in the remnants of their confrontation, lethargically assessing their losses. The sobs of naked fear and distress that she'd swallowed in sheer desperation, however, spewed from between her gasping lips when her father stood, a rivulet of blood seeping from his left shoulder but otherwise no worse for wear. He rushed to her in time for her to collapse with her face pressed deep into his strong chest.

"You did good, baby, it's all over," he whispered into her hair. Everything he'd warned her about had come true, and like any father who wants to say '_I told you so_' to an unruly child… he didn't. "I know this was hard but it's done now, it's okay. Everything's alright."

"We shouldn't hang about," Edgar murmured as he drew near their short-lived embrace. He pointed at the two unconscious men near the mouth of the cave before implying the rest of the injured or dead. "These guys have friends, and they'll likely be back. And Mohinder's been shot. He needs –"

"Where's Molly!" the Indian cried as he stumbled sideways out the rear of the van, falling to one knee, either woozy from his carnival demolition ride or the gushing wound on his left thigh that he mashed with one good hand, the other hanging uselessly as it dripped from another shot to his right shoulder.

"She's safe," Edgar replied as he zipped to the man's aid, pushing his body into his armpit to help haul him to his feet. "Let's get you into the other van and I'll fetch her – I left her in a pasture far from here where no one could find her. She's got no more company than honeybees and wildflowers, I promise. Maybe a cow."

Wiping her face and getting a grip, Claire watched Edgar assist Mohinder to the one leftover vehicle just before she turned to see Huong doggedly dragging her mate out of the cave. His chin lolled lifelessly against his chest, and Claire exhaled an exhausting sigh of sorrow.

"If we could just use his ability, my blood could heal _everyone here_…"

Edgar returned, light on his feet and anxious to hasten them out of their shell-shocked stupor and into productive action. Huong graced him with skirling praises and foreign prayers as he relieved her of her burden.

"He's still got a pulse, Noah," he imparted in a solemn tone, "he's _alive_, but not much longer if we can't get 'im some help. _Soon_. Mo's not lookin' too jolly either."

"Dad, if Doc's still alive, Sylar can mimic his ability," Claire sang enthusiastically, beaming up into his face. "Doc can copy things – he did it earlier to save his wife – he made her blood like mine!" Her hopeful smile shifted into something more uncertain, however, when she noticed the firm set to his jaw, and the grim line that pinched his mouth into something more dour. Following his gaze to where it meandered into the earthen dark of the tunnel… she saw one Chuck sticking out of the black – unmoving.

"He saved my life," Noah reflected. "Why would he do that?"

"Well, I can tell you in all honesty after this experience that the weirdo is _nothing_ if he's not a complete enigma."

Scurrying down the small embankment lining the abused streambed, Claire stepped gingerly into the cave to kick at the exposed foot.

"Sylar, quit playing around – we need you. Let's _go_." She was met with no reply – not even a snuff of waking breath. Stooping, she tugged at his arms, "I said come _ON_, this isn't funny," but only received leaden, inert resistance. He was out cold. A chill like ice water spilled down her spine at the oscillating tones that quavered off in the distance – police sirens. She was grateful for the warmth of the hand that came down on her shoulder.

"'Round these parts you can bet those guys aren't on our side, pumpkin. We gotta go. We're gonna have to find help some other way – we're out of time."

She stuffed her fingers into her jacket pockets, trying to forget the feel of cold, heavy killing steel against them, and she lightly caressed the pages bearing the soul of the man who'd saved her father's life. Enigma or not, there was something she was starting to piece together about Gabriel Gray: he needed help, had needed it all of his life – had needed _many_ things that went untended. _Neglected_. How _different_ would things have been if someone had offered a hand to him, or an ear? Even her own father – the man Sylar had rescued – had been in a position once to change his life… and chose _not_ to. If he did truly wish to redeem himself, and become the protector he pronounced himself to be… what good would it do to condemn him again? While it was true he had a nearly insurmountable debt to repay, if he _wanted_ to…

"…what good would it do to say he can't?"

"What…? Claire, come on, we've gotta –"

"Dad, we can't leave him here."

"Honey, please be serious. Do you have any idea how complicated –"

"It's _not_ complicated. It's the difference between right and wrong."

"We can't possibly control him –"

"He saved your life!"

"Alright! Alright… fine. Just help me with him – quickly! We _have_ to get out of here – _now_!"

Because she was short his long arms trailed knuckles on the ground, but together they managed to stuff him into the back of the van. Perched in the front passenger seat, Claire buckled her seatbelt and leaned her forehead against the soothing cool glass of the window, drowsing an exhausted half-slumber the very second Noah Bennet's foot hit the gas pedal. She slept through his entire phone conversation with Peter Petrelli.

* * *

A cheerful, cartoon-like panorama of rosy pink and buttery yellow hues was cast against cottonball clouds as the dazzling golden disk that dominated the sky by day slowly slipped away from her twinkling twilit cradle. Peter had expected this part of Texas to reach higher average daily temperatures than what he was accustomed to, but the concrete curb that supported the weight he balanced on his sitbones was warmer than a typical spring afternoon. Too immersed in worry to make any sense of his disorganized med kit, he was wholly beholden to Emma who took the task upon herself while he occupied his mind and his fears by waiting outside one of the two modest motel rooms he'd procured on the edge of town. Enlisting the help of Tracy and Lauren kept the girls busy and made everyone feel a little less like they were there to act as a brute squad… in heels. A couple loud clanks from an antiquated soda machine cut through the stalwart spell of the sunset and heralded Hiro Nakamura's approach.

"Is no good to worry on empty belly," his round face smiled as he passed Peter an old-fashioned glass bottle of Coca-Cola.

"Yeah." He popped the top and let the fizz bite his lips and throat. "Thank you." To this, Hiro merely bowed his head. "No, I mean a _big_ thank you. You could've just asked me to take your power – you didn't have to come."

"If there is trouble and I am needed, I am honored to help."

"I know you are, thank you. I just… I didn't want to get here and find out I needed to borrow someone else's ability and leave all of these people stranded, you know? And you've gotta admit… you're kind of a handy guy to have around."

"So I am told."

Peter took another long pull from the bottle, trying to relax as a soft, warm breeze pushed his hair across his eyes. "I haven't had one of these in a long time."

"When I come to America, I have one of these – first thing. Coca-Cola _is_ America." His cheeks dimpled with amiable self-satisfaction.

"Heh. Better that than a lot of things, I suppose."

Like discriminating against people who are different and hunting our own kind… But, he supposed, that's a little scrap of world history that this country was too young to have learned with all the '_older kids_'.

"We have waited long. You are sure they know how to find us?"

"Yeah. Noah said they were kinda far away, but they had Molly and GPS. They'll get here."

"He also said people were hurt…"

"Yeah. He did." He prayed he wouldn't have to look into the dead eyes of a stranger today. He also hoped he wouldn't have to watch Molly become an orphan a second time. The rational part of him knew better than to think for one second that his niece was in any less than her usual pristine condition, but because she was a part of his continuously dwindling family, he had a healthy appreciation for Murphy's Law and took nothing for granted. He just wanted to see her for himself. The turmoil inside him was also provoked by the reminder that he was still owed a confrontation between himself and his roommate… and that they were about to have a very impartial audience. Things didn't plan to play out pleasantly.

The crunch of sandy gravel against asphalt was followed by the blinding glare of halogen headlamps, preceding the arrival of the long-awaited white van. Peter gulped down his apprehension and rose to his feet. He released a joyful breath of relief when Claire's golden hair bounced as she hopped out of the vehicle. She was covered with mud and blood from head to toe, and the puffy rings under her eyes spoke volumes of her level of fatigue, but all else aside she was just fine. She glowed and grasped at him as if she hadn't seen him in ages. Rounding his palms around the balls of the girl's shoulders, he watched Edgar and Molly wrestle with a pale and badly limping Mohinder. Alerted by the flash of light, Emma emerged from the crudely assembled provisional triage to help her lover perform their duties. She pointed to where she wanted the wounded man taken before she entered the van with Noah to assist the Vietnamese couple still hidden within.

"Peter," her low voice called when she leaned back into view, sidestepping Edgar's return to help Noah carry an unconscious Doc inside. "Come." He joined her at the rear of the van where she undid the latch and let the doors swing open.

"Looks like _someone_ got in a nice nap on the way here," Peter jeered humorlessly as Emma set off to inspect their patients.

He felt Tracy, Lauren, and Claire come up behind him, peering over his shoulder at Sylar's long body pretzeled uncomfortably in the cargo area, every bit as filthy as Claire.

"Well, I'll be damned, it's true – there he is," Lauren chimed, pleased to see some lead in their investigation begin to pan out.

"He won't wake up," Claire relayed, "not sure what the deal is. It's like he's just… _broken_. Like a robot."

"A _killer_ robot."

"He says he hasn't killed anyone."

"Yeah, well I don't think anyone around _here_ believes he's completely innocent, either," Peter replied as he smacked the man's cheeks roughly, hoping to rouse him. "Come on, buddy, it's time to… hmmm…"

"What…?"

"He's ice cold…" Sheepishly he chided himself for not noticing the faintly ashen tint to his skin, blaming the oversight on the fading daylight. The bridge of his nose wrinkling in alarm, he dropped to his haunches and slid probing fingers underneath the man's chin, searching for a jugular or carotid – searching for a pulse. Abruptly he stumbled backwards, dizzy with stark realization, fingers kneading in balled fists, reeling from an strange pang of loss that made no sense.

"Oh… oh my god…"

"What?" Claire hovered nervously near his elbow.

"He's… He's _dead_."

"…what?!?" The girl didn't do a very good job of masking the tiny glimmer of pity that flitted over her sweet features, one that almost bordered on sadness or remorse. Tracy crowded him from the other side, bending at the waist to take a closer look.

"Are you sure? _Seriously_? Because I was under the impression that the guy was an infamous _cockroach_."

"Clinically, yes, I'm sure." He wheeled toward his niece for answers. "How did this happen?"

"He, he" she stammered, dumbfounded, "he was shot, he…" Her hand had found its way back to the same wadded patch of shirt. "He gave his _life_ to save my father…"

Lauren's head snapped up attentively before she cantered away to interrogate the fortunate survivor.

"Why would he do that," Tracy wondered in amazement.

Propping one knee on the bumper, Peter lowered himself to turn the jaw of his roommate's body left and right, as if the action would perform some feat of medieval magic, and the man's eyes would miraculously pop open and scare the living hell out of everyone present.

"Buddy…" he whispered, more to himself than anyone, "you are just one big walking mystery."

**A/N #2: Uhh... dead...? Umm... that wouldn't make for a very interesting Sylaire fic, now would it?!? WTF!!!!**


	10. Grey

**********A/N: Well, it's bittersweet. Heroes is canceled. Yet NBC seems interested in wrapping up the series for us - somehow - and an interview with Tim Kring describes him as 'discussing ways to keep Heroes alive' or some such. Well, Heroes is alive and well in THIS fic. So rest your sweet heads, my pretties, and you just come see me. I still have *several* chapters ahead to hopefully delight you. I think we can all agree that these characters still had SO many more stories to tell - so let US be the ones to tell them, right? And for the sake of my husband and step-child I'm trying *really* hard not to hate 'Chuck' right now for making the cut, even if they only got a 13-ep season (the one WE were supposed to get...), but it's hard when I thought that show was dumb to begin with... but I digress. This chapter includes some parts that I've been very anxious to get out onto the screen so YAY! I hope y'all enjoy!  
**

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**10) Grey**

The rhythmical creak of the front porch swing lulled Brother Jacob into calm complacency as he watched the setting sun slip from the breezeless, candy-colored sky. Dreaming of clever anecdotes to be casually inserted into his traditional Sunday morning rhetoric, he sipped a sweating glass of lemonade and chewed on a peanut butter fold-over sandwich. So engrossed was he in his mental notation that the phone rang twice before he lent a thought toward answering it. It was the third ring that snapped him out of his meditative trance, however, and set him to motion, charging into the house like a leggy foal on scrambling newborn feet. Jim was calling, mostly likely to provide an update on the situation regarding their sniffing little spook.

"Hello, Jim."

"Jacob. We have a problem."

"What sort of problem?"

"A sizeable one."

"That doesn't answer my question – it just makes me ask _more_."

The way Jim was stalling was unsettling – he wasn't the type to preamble.

"The caves have been compromised."

"By three men and a little girl?"

"Obviously, Brother, it's a bit more complicated than that. We've also come to the conclusion that the caves were not really a good solution for containing the…" he _wanted_ to say freaks, "_threat_."

"I see. So some escaped, is what you're saying."

"You would be correct in that assumption, yes."

"And after that I'm guessing things went… _poorly_."

"There were losses, Brother. Several, actually. We underestimated their power."

_Of course_. An ill-omen of things to come, for sure. His heart a was lead weight in his chest, he bent to rest an elbow on the countertop and slowly slid his solemn brow into the palm of his hand.

"God rest those poor unfortunate souls… their wives, fatherless children and everything… We're _ALL_ idiots for thinking the devil's wicked spawn would be anything less than _clever_…"

"We still have Matt Parkman as an advantage, though, Brother. One of the escapees was the daughter of Senator Petrelli – the one Culbertson thinks is the messiah of the para-human uprising. We have reason to believe that the trail who rescued her was her foster father. We can… _interrogate_ the grandmother, Angela Petrelli, to see if she has any information regarding their whereabouts. We could also go back to the apartment where Gabriel Gray was abducted to question her uncle, Peter."

"Did Gabriel escape with the girl?"

"Brother, I –"

"_Did he escape?_"

Jim's pause gave him the answer he didn't want to hear. This was a disastrous error requiring _immediate_ rectification. All activity would grind to a halt if their scapegoat was running around unchecked, creating alibis for himself and generating witnesses to corroborate them. There was also the fact that the man was formidably powerful and famously deadly – an evil, soulless killer who reveled in his heathen lack of a moral compass. A super-powered psychopath.

"He did."

_Son of a…_ Damn.

"Well… then yes, I think that plan would be a perfectly productive use of our time. As for our faulty accommodations, I think Neil has a much better idea on how to confine our interesting little _friends_."

"Perfect. Just let me know where you want them taken once you've ironed out the details."

"Of course."

Praying that Jim would be capable of producing results, Brother Jacob hung up the phone, finding it more urgent to start writing eulogies for their fallen comrades rather than dial Neil Culbertson immediately. The '_details_' were a far simpler thing to manage than trying to put to words the kind of grief that flooded the hearts and minds of those who were left behind – the _true_ innocents of this conflict. Despite his convictions, it was an incredibly arduous task to ask his congregation to let go of thoughts of retribution and revenge – to turn the other cheek as Jesus did in the face of such despair and loss. Sometimes it was difficult to ask for faith in God, but it was his duty.

Slow, pondering fingertips collected a pad of paper and a pencil from a table in the kitchen as he returned to his roost on the front porch, facing the deliberately waning southwest, waving a hand that shooed the gathering moths attracted to the porch light currently doing its level best to banish the increasing dark. He took a contemplative moment to reach out with his mind across the miles of grassland, forest, lowland swamps, and beach before he reached the glimmering starlit cusp of the ocean.

Rest assured, out there, sunken amidst her inky depths… their triumph was waiting. They would have their day, oh _yes_ – they would prevail.

* * *

*** _Day… something. In Hell. Has it been a year? _***

Rain would only break the monotony, so naturally there wasn't any. Not that it would change much: rain was _grey_… as grey as the shroud of disorienting mist that engulfed the perimeter of the vast cityscape yawning away toward the dreary horizon, holding him prisoner… as grey as the sea tumbling in placid waves over the lightly pebbled, grey sandy beaches paving a path toward the false promise of a watery grave that would never claim him… as grey as the sky twisting the fabric of his sleeves and pant legs around his shivering frame a little tighter with every sharp, biting gust of scathing wind. Fingernails digging into the grey, steel-enforced concrete of the uncharacteristically deserted viewing platform, Sylar drug his eyes over the twinkling skyline of an eerily silent Manhattan for what he hoped would be the last time… a hope he knew would end up as dashed as his fragile, fleshy body the instant it burst against the grey pavement like a watermelon at high velocity. A thin, apathetic voice within him that was too burdened by deep, despairing depression to expend the energy required for climbing up onto the railing inwardly groaned at the melodrama – jumping off of the Empire State Building… seriously, dude…? _Really?_ The rest of him didn't care, however – it was _his death_ (or at least attempt number five) and _he_ was going to decide where and when it would happen and there was _no one else_ around to tell him otherwise. If there had been, then… obviously things would be _different_.

Clamping down with an iron grip against a wildly swirling sensation of panic, he shifted his butt onto the cold stone and dangled his feet out into the wide open, precipitous space plunging down and away from the side of the building. He knew he could never be content with base imitations of happily chattering voices and smiling faces. He was smothered and drowning in the oppressive knowledge of all he would never see again, and no matter how viciously he clawed for the surface the effort was fruitless… this place would _never_ let him succeed, sucking him back down into its dark, churning tidal pool with leaden grey weights strapped to his frantically kicking feet. Perhaps he could master at least this one thing – an ending. If this hell-hole wanted him to sink, then that's exactly what he'd do.

Faltering in cowardice for a tensely quiet moment, nauseated by nerves, he reminded himself what it had felt like to fly for the first time, and how liberating it had been. This would be just like that – there was no real reason to be afraid. And there was no real reason for nostalgia – there wasn't anything or any_one_ here for him to miss. This was _mercy_, really. He _had_ nothing… no one. He _was_ no one.

'_Hey_.'

A tourist pamphlet portraying bland, generic scenery whizzed past his right ear, zipping out onto a manic, windswept thermal where it flapped like a bird with one wing as it flailed and circled toward the distant ground, confusing his ears with little wisps of gossamer sound.

'_HEY_.'

Sylar's typical cynicism was certain he was imagining things, but the dwindling remnants of his humanity had real trouble letting go of the insufferably endearing gullibility that made Gabriel who he was… and ultimately gave birth to his fearsome alter ego as a result. He tilted his chin toward his shoulder.

'_Yeah, YOU stupid – I'm talking to you._'

He narrowed his eyes with a snarl – he hadn't tolerated name-calling for decades and he saw no reason to start.

'_C'mere – come talk to me._'

_NOW_ this place had something to say? Why _NOW_? Why not on any one of the _last_ four suicide attempts?

"Fuck off. Kinda busy, here."

'_Oh come on you moron, we both know that's not gonna work. I mean, _what_ – are you praying for a bone fragment from a shattered rib cage to come along and nail you in your little sweet spot, is that it? _Please_. We both know that all you're gonna do when you finally wake up is scream bloody murder while you snap your bones back together then go home and bawl like a little girl all afternoon because it didn't work. _Again_._'

The taunts were starting to rouse his ire. He swung his legs back onto the dais and he stomped across it in challenge, searching around every corner for the source of the irritating voice… the one he suspected only truly resided within his own head.

"Look, I don't know what you –"

'_Let's examine them all, okay? Shall we? First attempt – you slit your wrists. Fine. How many times did you have to slash at those things before the cuts would stay open?_'

He didn't answer – he wasn't going to allow himself to be goaded. Finding nothing more than empty shadows and flocking featherbrained pigeons, he raced to the elevator in spite of thinking that flinging himself over the side would've been a much faster trip down.

'_Oh wait, that's right – they _wouldn't_ stay open, would they?_'

He savagely jabbed the button for the first floor over and over until the doors closed, eager to take this fight outside, unwittingly following the pied piper's music to wherever it may lead.

'_Second attempt – by hanging no less, you sentimental old fool. And how did that turn out?_'

He charged into the street, listening for a direction.

'_Passed out cold for how many weeks, swinging in your own soiled clothing?_'

He chose one and ran.

'_Maybe rope wasn't the right choice – I mean, if the rat who chewed through your line hadn't come along you'd still be hanging there, none the wiser, wouldn't you? Maybe if you'd chosen _wire_ you would have decapitated yourself… but _then_ what would've happened? Would your severed head have grown a new body? Or would your body have grown a new head? Ooo, or _both_! See – and then there would've been _two_ of you, and you'd have someone else to talk to besides me! Don't you feel like an idiot _now_!_'

His peripheral vision was lined with a familiar dark blur of fury – he was beginning to spiral into a nuclear meltdown.

'_Moving on, third attempt – the Waldorf Astoria, in a porcelain hot tub, with a TOASTER._'

He skidded to a breathless halt.

'_How did _that_ work out for –_'

"We don't talk about number three!"

'_Is that because it was _really_ mess–_'

"WE DON'T TALK ABOUT IT!"

'_Alright. Fine. We won't._'

He hadn't wanted to kill something this badly in… wow, had it been a year? He chased the disembodied spirit into a less corporate neighborhood lined with smaller buildings, scrambling through some loose gravel as he rounded a bend into an empty parking lot facing a lonely basketball court littered with wayward trash.

'_But how about that fourth attempt – that was a pretty big knife you stuck yourself with –_'

"It was a sword," he growled, glaring at the lesser towers across the street, eliminating down to just one. It was almost cathartic the way the window exploded in a cloud of flying prismatic glass beneath the impact of one, good solid rock – the way the weight had wrenched his shoulder had almost been fulfilling. It wasn't telekinesis, but it got the job done.

'_Oh, right, well excuse _me_. A SWORD. Yes, well, call it what you want, you still missed._'

He took the stairs two at a time, panting his menacing exertions in short, labored breaths, fingers itching to close around that smarmy fucking throat and choke the life out of the body it was attached to. When he reached the twelfth floor he nearly succumbed to an asthmatic fit and his knees were wobbling so badly he could barely stand but the fire raging in his belly held him rigidly upright. If he gained anything at all from this exercise, it would be a renewed resolve to begin a running regimen.

'_But I think you _wanted_ to miss._'

"Fuck off."

'_You keep saying that…_'

Bearing his teeth in a hungry, feral sneer he tore open a pair of heavy oak double doors that bore him entrance to a long conference room housing a table, an unused cavalry of leather cushioned rolling chairs, and a highly polished mahogany desk that decorated the end of the corridor. He sauntered the length of the oblong oval that gave the room its purpose, trailing his deftly dangerous fingertips across the coffee cup stains that marred its expensive finish, remembering clearly the buzz that once coursed through every muscle fiber when he was able to send from them a showcase of stinging, spinning sparks.

'_I think you _want_ this. Yes, yes I do. I think you _want_ to feel punished. I think you can't sleep at night unless you feel miserable to the point of suicide._'

His last three steps nearly dug holes in the carpet. With a wanton display of strength, he stretched his body like a pouncing tiger and ripped the august desk away from its station to tip over onto one side, hurling a scattered collection of various office supplies into a raucous mess all over the burgundy-colored floor. Vibrating with an unspent need for violence, Sylar knotted his hands in his hair in complete dumbfounded disbelief that there wasn't an actual human being hiding in the area that would have accommodated a chair.

'_I think we both know you need this penance. You need to feel miserable – otherwise you can't convince yourself that you're making restitution. How can you be absolved if not by fire?_'

He shifted his weight and a beam of light, like the sun through a stained glass window, pierced through the black haze of unstoppable psychosis that threatened to overcome him. And then, distinct as a church bell ringing, its rhythm as musical and steady as the pounding of his own hammering heart, he heard it.

_Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…_

Having rolled free of a nest of upended paper to bump to a stop next to an overturned stapler gleamed the crystalline face of men's very classically styled Breitling wristwatch. Suddenly and inexplicably hypnotized, addicted to irresistible curiosity, he let go of his anger and stooped to pick the object up, examining its lavish findings and loving craftsmanship, admiring just how many time zones he could simultaneously read at a single glance… as if those time zones actually existed. A quick flash of motion, however, broke the spell.

'_Would you not concede that every hurt you've done to others has also hurt you in return? Every life you've taken has further injured a wound in your heart, picking at the scab until the scar just grew and grew and grew? And no matter how badly you think you want to die, you know that wound isn't gonna heal unless you've walked a thousand miles in this… perdition._'

It was his own mocking reflection speaking to him, stabbing with truths he didn't want to hear, robbing him of his own voice.

"I said _fuck off_," he hissed through a clenched jaw, fresh anger boiling behind his eyes once more.

'_You already know how to get out of here, you just don't want to do it._'

"FUCK YOU!" He'd had enough. "I _DON'T_ fucking know how to get out of here! You're so _smart_? Why don't you just lead me _there_, goddammit, instead of making me run all over fucking town!"

'_I will when you're ready._'

Tears of betrayal threatened to brim over at such cruelty. Rather than give in to weakness, he decided to do what he did best, resorting to the only method by which he knew how to change his world – he _killed_ it. Winding back his arm like a pitcher on the mound, he launched the extravagant timepiece to where it smashed through the glass separating the chamber from the outside world. Twelve stories it plummeted to be thoroughly demolished against the unforgiving embrace of the pavement waiting below… just as his body had been destined to do only minutes prior.

He would sadly find out later that, extinguished with it, was the only other voice whose tempered notes saw fit to grace his ears for the duration of the past year.

_Now_ he would truly know silence.

* * *

Claire closed the book, distracted by the sound of her own name, eyes puffy and aching from straining in the dim street light.

"When he gained her ability, he got all of her weaknesses along with her strengths," she heard her father annotate over her left shoulder from where she was seated on the curb between the two rooms.

"But that doesn't explain how someone like either one of them could actually _die_," was Tracy's befuddled response. "I guess that's why it's so shocking… I was kind of under the impression that _death_ was, like, you know… not exactly _in the cards_ for either of them."

"Well, that's the thing, right? I… okay. Alright. Look. I don't like making it public knowledge, so obviously I'd like to keep this amongst ourselves, but Claire… she isn't completely invulnerable. She has a weak spot. Where her spinal column meets the base of her skull. An injury to her brain stem could…" he paused to perish the thought, not wishing to tempt karma, "well… it _could_ bring her down. But when Sylar adopted James Martin's ability to shapeshift, somehow he manipulated that vulnerability. He told Danko he '_moved it_', although I'm not sure how that works or what that means, but I _do_ know that when Danko claimed to have stabbed him right where it counted – gave him what he described as a '_killing blow_' – he shrugged it off without batting an eye."

"So, when he got shot, he must've taken one right smack dab in the middle of his weak spot's _new_ location."

"One can only assume."

"Do you think he's capable of reviving?" Lauren vocalized what everyone else was thinking but didn't want to say. Having had some experience with the subject matter, Claire briefly considered joining the conversation but found she lacked the initiative, more interested in a bath and a bed than focusing on her old nemesis for any longer than she already had. And maybe he really _had_ changed. Maybe it was time to let stuff go. It was _definitely_ time to get some sleep.

"It's hard to say," he went on as she stood, secretly stashing the journal back within the secluded folds of her jacket pocket, needlessly brushing the rocky dirt from the back of her muddy jeans. "Claire was attacked once by a boy in high school who wanted to take things a bit too far… in the fight she ended up with a big stick jabbed in the back of her head. She said she woke up later in the middle of her autopsy once the object had been removed… like its presence in her body was what held her in a state of death. It's my guess that he's got a bullet lodged in the right place and it's having the same effect on him."

"Well… that bears some really interesting implications, doesn't it…"

"Absolutely it does – namely one: do we pull the bullet out?"

A chilly nighttime breeze blew goosebumps across the exposed skin of her neck and chest, but the cold didn't bite as hard as her father's succinct summation of their scenario. It was typical of him, finding no value in tact, having no trouble getting directly to the point and confronting the hard questions. He was business-like in everything that he did, taking charge of the situation and keeping everyone else on task. And no price was too costly for the greater good – not even death. His attitude toward it could even seem… lackadaisical at times. And while she could understand – Sylar was _finally_ dead, there should be fireworks and cake and drunken keg-tapping ceremonies befitting of most cherished national holidays – it just didn't seem… _right_. Like… it was no longer _justified_.

"How is that even a question?" Mohinder croaked from where he lay recuperating, awaiting medical treatment for his injuries. Claire stood her ground, hugging her elbows as she eavesdropped, wondering if a man of mild Hindu tradition would carry a greater compunction toward the sanctity of human life. "Of course we don't pull it out! He's a murderer – this is cosmic _justice_!"

Disappointed and unable to quite put her finger on why, she shuffled into the other room – one that was thankfully quiet by contrast, the air unpolluted by tense and ugly words transforming her fatigue into grumpiness with a hint of a burgeoning migraine for which, thanks to her metabolism, painkillers would have no effect. As she entered, Peter straightened and rubbed the throbbing small of his back before resuming his crooked posture, fervently working on the bleeding hole in Doc's torso, aided by Emma's nimble hands fresh with the confidence of new academia. Regardless of their pooled education, however, Claire could tell by the crease lining the man's brow that things weren't going so smoothly. Rather than witness another dose of gore that she really didn't need, grateful for the hungry protests from her empty belly, she lowered herself onto the opposite bed next to Huong.

_And_ Sylar.

Ignoring the white elephant lying prone on the far side of the mattress, Claire folded the woman's fingers within her own, seeking to lure toward her those stony eyes carved in a pale, drawn face. It wasn't just the fact that they were sitting next to a dead body – one belonging to the man who had killed Huong's brother, but had also deflected gunfire to keep her safe (and it was easy to forget that she didn't quite know that he was really only… _half_-dead) – the woman was helplessly watching her mate's soul ebb away, and she was powerless to do anything to stop it. Claire dropped her chin with respect when her gesture elicited a tender squeeze, and she studied the threadwork of the comforter as she tried to relate to what the woman must be feeling. She could appreciate the need for companionship, probably more than anyone she knew as the cruel and endless life she lived promised a torturous lack of it, or more correctly a perpetually cyclical _loss_ of it.

The ghostly parallel curled a tendril of empathy around her cheek and gently turned her face toward the monster that had scraped through her nightmares for so long. Claire had been to funerals before and had seen dead bodies, yet he looked nothing like one of them. To the casual observer he could've been asleep, with his hands clasped over his unmoving middle, his thick, plump fan of eyelashes fanning over youthful skin that still held a fading rosy hue, and his breathless lips parted serenely as if he were dreaming. And while every cell in his body still bore the vivid stench of predatory horror and twisted insanity, soaking in memories of when he still foamed at the mouth like a crazed rabid, power-mad dog… there was a tiny bud blooming inside her that was desperate to see his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh… to hear him mumble some sleepy incoherent nonsense… to listen to him rattle off more of his favorite comfort foods over audible pangs of hunger… to glower as he called her names in a weird and ungainly attempt to redeem himself to her… to look into the only pair of eyes that was supposed to still know her one thousand, million years from now.

They had both known what it was like to be lonely. It made people think unusual things… like wishing a bloodthirsty, homicidal maniac was still alive. She prayed Huong wouldn't join the club.

"Damn," Peter exhaled morosely, taking two steps backwards to slide down the wall into disheartened a crouch. "He needs a _real_ doctor, and equipment… he needs a _hospital_… I can't –"

"Yes you can," Claire told him, standing. "Here. Take his ability and copy my blood."

Emma looked on with puzzlement, trying to read what was happening.

"I don't under–"

"He copies things – this'll work, I promise – I saw him do it to his wife, and look at her, she's perfectly _fine_. Take my blood, copy it, and make his blood like mine. He'll heal." He eyed her skeptically, brain busy calculating any unrealized inherent risks. "Peter, what choice does he have? If he's going to die anyway? And taking him to a hospital will just get him caught and killed, probably along with the rest of us? I've seen this work – please, just trust me!"

"Alright," he reluctantly agreed, crawling to his knees, "alright." Scooting closer, he dragged a sure, methodical hand down Doc's limp arm, smoothing over his shirt sleeve a shimmering silver sheen that was representative of his remarkable ability. Emma grimaced but remained still as Peter retrieved his discarded scalpel and sliced a wide incision across his niece's open palm. Cupping his hands beneath hers to catch the swelling pool of blood, one that stemmed like a faucet the instant the cut miraculously healed, he allowed the alien sensation of the foreign power to flood his extremities, nebulizing the puddle of liquid into a fuzzy pink orb which he hovered gingerly over Doc's wounded stomach. Like a tiny sinking ship, it drifted in slow defiance of gravity until it disappeared beneath his skin. Emma graciously withdrew to allow Huong access to her husband's side, where the woman eagerly knelt and clasped his hand in both of hers, mumbling silent prayers in hopeful supplication. Her words became exultant tears when they watched the shredded damage afflicting his body begin to orderly knit back together.

"Here," Claire offered her hands to Peter again, still beaming with success, "take more – go heal Mohinder."

As he hurriedly exited, he pivoted around an obstacle in the doorway that turned out to be Molly carrying two white plastic shopping bags. Sidling out of Peter's way she crossed the threshold to step fully into the room, her demeanor stiff and wary as she made a tentative approach, wide-eyed with unmasked apprehension.

"Hiro just popped out and back, got you some clean clothes and bathroom stuff," she addressed without looking at Claire, setting the bags on the nearby dresser without offering them to their intended recipient. On hesitant feet she cautiously closed the distance between her and her personal demon's harmless body as if she were a wild animal, ready to take flight at any given moment should his eyes fly open to find her. For an ageless pause she stood and stared as Emma turned to observe the interaction, the resonant hush disturbed only by Huong's sibilant whispers.

"Your dad said Peter was saying he wanted to change," she finally muttered, twitching a finger in Sylar's direction.

"Yeah, I've been hearing the same thing."

"Says he rotted in some, like, _mental prison_ for a long time."

"Yup, that's the rumor."

"Hmm." Cocking one hip, she scrutinized him a bit more harshly. "You believe it?"

Claire could only pretzel her arms over her chest and sigh to keep from chuckling.

"S'funny, you know, he keeps asking me the same thing. He says he hasn't killed anybody, claims all of these deaths are just illusions, and Matt Parkman, for whatever reason, is running around playing tricks on people… which in and of itself is just insane. He doesn't have a shred of proof, and his history is… well… pretty condemning, right?"

"Yeah."

"So… yeah. It's pretty tough to believe him."

"…but?"

"_But_… there he was in that cave with me anyway. He worked really hard to protect us… and he died saving my _dad_, who he _hates_… which is kind of a big deal."

"Hmm."

"I know."

Molly took a second to absorb what she'd said and give it some thought.

"I used to want him to die," she scolded under her breath.

"I did too."

"I can _never_ forgive him for what he did to me. I'm not even sure he can make it up. He's… he's disgusting."

"There's more than a few of us here who can relate to _that_, yeah."

But then the girl lowered her head in defeat, as if she'd lost a battle against her better judgment.

"That doesn't mean I didn't want him to _try_ though. It… it _means_ something to me." Feeling a sudden flare of kinship accompanied by an overwhelming need for proximity, Claire moved to support the girl shoulder to shoulder, lending her a heartfelt ear. "They wanna leave him dead, it's all they've been talking about."

"Yeah, I know, I heard them too."

"It's not right – it just seems like an easy way out. He should be groveling on his knees for me every morning telling me how sorry he is." Her expression grew fierce. "He should live his _whole life_ begging me for forgiveness. He doesn't get to just… just _die_. It's not _fair_. And…" she squeezed her rolling eyes shut, reviled that she could admit such a thing, "…and it feels like _murder_. Like, if we just _leave_ him like this when we could _do_ something about it… it just feels like we're no better than _he_ is. And then _I_ feel disgusting." Claire was truly impressed that a girl of her years could be gifted with such sage wisdom.

"It's a moot point," Peter interrupted as he returned to check on Doc's progress, startling the girls as they whirled on him in surprise. "Those of us who have chosen a life of service in the medical profession have certain ideals to uphold," he stated plainly, establishing the man's vital statistics and checking the response of his reflexes. "It's more than a job, it's a _commitment_. If I can help someone, regardless of who they are, I'm obligated – I don't have a choice. If he's got a bullet lodged somewhere, it's coming out whether anyone likes it or not." Having determined that Doc's condition was improving nicely, Peter straightened and squared his stance, preparing himself for the inevitable fallout that was sure to follow the action he was about to take. He and Emma were both ready to tackle their final patient. "But first we've gotta _find_ the damned thing."

"My weak spot has always been in the back of my head," Claire offered.

"But your dad said he '_moved_' it, whatever that means…"

"So we need to hunt for it," Emma said, surprisingly adept at keeping up with the conversation for a deaf woman.

"_Great_. Well, that can only mean one thing," Peter frowned as he sheepishly swabbed at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, buddy, but we're gonna have to strip you."

"Oh god…" Molly pulled an about face and pressed her palms against her brows but didn't budge any farther, reticent to subject herself to the neighboring room and its somber topic of discussion. Claire wasn't sure she wanted to face whatever price awaited those who breached the man's jealously guarded privacy either, but she couldn't deny her friends any help they needed while dealing with a mysterious ability that mimicked her own – her feet were frozen to the spot. Apparently unphased by the thought of non-consentual male nudity, Emma began to expertly unlace Sylar's shoes before running exploring fingers underneath the cuffs of his jeans and up his legs. Peter started with his head, just to be thorough despite Noah's grim predilection, kneading the flesh at the juncture of his neck and skull. Grabbing a pair of scissors from his back pocket, he tugged the sharp blades through the fabric of Sylar's shirt, dissecting it with very little friction. Having gotten as far as she could, Emma shrugged and visibly confirmed that future doctors in training couldn't afford the luxury of being bashful – she deftly unzipped his fly and shucked him out of his pants like an ear of corn. Peter pretended he didn't notice the display of efficient skill, and he definitely didn't blush with envy at the treatment his dead roommate had received instead of _him_. And he didn't hear her _giggle_ at his stern visage, either. Because that would just be _absurd_.

"There's not a mark on him," Claire concluded, climbing onto the mattress, taking one of his lifeless, greying arms in her lap and massaging the dead muscles in search of a bullet-shaped lump. Her throat constricted when her thumb mushed over her own face, imprinted lovingly into the silken skin. Pulling herself together and getting past the artistic divination, she turned her attention toward inspecting his ribs and the smooth planes of his belly while Peter mirrored her on the other side and Emma investigated his thighs. As if they were circling a drain, gradually gravitating toward each other, they finally knocked heads just above his…

Hmm.

Stopping to cringe and spear each other with expectant glances, they momentarily contemplated drawing straws.

"I'll do it," Emma announced, not granting near enough warning before she hooked a finger under the waistband of his dark blue boxer briefs and –

"_WAIT!_" Claire threw her hands out between them, pumping them for emphasis. "Wait, oh my god, wait. I have an idea." She was pretty sure she saw a glimpse of pubic hair. Violent pyroclastic surges couldn't scald that image from her brain. Before she'd realized what she'd done, she'd already run to the van and back, brandishing the weapon she'd been too stressed to let go of after they'd fled the battlefield. She emptied the round from the chamber and lifted it glistening into the air between her thumb and forefinger.

"Molly – can you use your ability to locate one of these in his body?" Yes, this was a _much_ better idea.

"I will _totally_ try." The girl was too young to see her first penis… let alone the one attached to the dead body of the man who killed her parents. If she wasn't _already_ scarred for life…

Gulping back the discomfort she felt at the thought of making physical contact with the famous nutjob, Molly mashed her knees into the side of the spongy box spring and extended a level arm over his supine form, letting her extraordinary intuition guide her.

"Why wouldn't there be a wound," Peter mused in muted tones, afraid of breaking the girl's concentration. "If it was enough to bring him down, shouldn't there be a wound?"

"I wonder if it's possible that the hole healed before the bullet hit anything _vital_," Claire speculated. "Although that doesn't seem very –"

"Here," Molly spoke, lightly tapping a curt staccato over an area just off-center on his chest. "Something like two or three inches deep. It's there."

"You're sure?"

"I am. I can feel it."

"His _heart_," Claire sighed. "He put it in his _heart_. Dipshit, that's the _last_ place I would've put it. I'd have moved it to my left big _toe_ or something."

"So every time you'd stub that toe in the middle of the night it'd be life-threatening?" Peter joked, already splitting the skin with the acute blade of his scalpel. "I dunno, hiding it behind the bony plate of his sternum wasn't exactly a bad plan…"

"Yeah, and it worked out _so well_ for him too."

"There's not a lot of blood," Molly noted, wrinkling her nose in squeamish fascination.

"Not with dead bodies. By now, gravity's started to pool the blood in his underside. Oh yeah, lookie there…" He pulled the instrument away from an exposed expanse of still-pinkish bone. "It's slightly pitted – there's definitely an anomaly here. Emma, do you think you can cut through this? I don't exactly have a _full_ surgeon's kit." His hands implored with a sign asking for help. Comprehending, she nodded brightly. Claire expected her to close her eyes with the effort although she wasn't sure why – accurate aim was probably important. Instead, she slitted her lids and hummed a tune that existed solely in her own head, perhaps from a memory with a far sweeter melody than the jarbled, off-key notes that she sang, signifying a blinding flash of color and a sickening crack like the fracture of too many bones – Sylar's chest was flayed wide open. If Claire hadn't seen her own innards on more than several occasions, she'd likely have her face in the toilet.

"Wow… didn't know she could do _that_…" she remarked instead.

"She can repel as well as she can attract," Peter smiled, still impressed by the woman who'd captured his affection. "Yes – there it is! The sternum must've slowed it's trajectory – it's lodged right here in the…" he grappled for a small pair of forceps, "looks like the right ventricle… nearly punctured the pulmonary valve… tore a great big hole…"

One that immediately began to close the very second the bullet was removed. Quiescent with reverent anticipation, they all backed away to let the magic do its job. Claire balled her fists at her side with a tiny emotion she couldn't describe when the lumpy, oddly grey surface of his lungs, made slimy by the moist coating of his pleura, quickly expanded beneath a broken rib cage that was reaching for its other side like so many bowing tree limbs. Was it relief? Or strangely veiled injustice? She felt like she was in uncharted territory.

"He's alive!" Emma chimed. "But he's not waking up…"

"Trust me on this one, having experienced this," Claire responded, stepping off of the mattress in order to assess Molly's emotional status, "and knowing that there is one big difference between me and him – he _still feels pain_ – he's probably gonna want to sleep this off. I'd just leave him alone."

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Peter agreed.

Benevolently Claire paralleled the timid girl, combing fingers through her hair and bathing her own graven face in the false yellow streetlight diffused by the cheap, gauzy curtain covering the window. "I don't know if I feel like we got what we wanted," she whispered. "Like… we should be careful what we wish for or something." Molly jerked the corner of her mouth and nodded in response. It was too late to do anything about it other than face the music next door. Before she moved to leave, however, a sparkle around her neck caught Claire's eye. "That's pretty," she told her, poking at the silver bauble dangling from the end of a delicate length of chain.

Twisting suddenly, Molly accidentally flipped the backside to where it was temporarily legible – glittering across the rear was what looked like an engraving, something about '_In Loving Memory_'.

"What is –"

Molly veered away, snatching the necklace into her palm before stuffing it into her shirt, bumping a bedside table with the rubber heels of her shoes.

"…it…"

"A watch," Emma supplied, twirling a finger in the air while she helped monitor Sylar's rate of mending, making sure it proceeded properly. "I can see it ticking."

"A wah–"

"_No_…" Tears had sprung into the frightened, saucer-shaped eyes of the inexplicably terrified girl. She still clutched at the item in question through the layer of concealing fabric. "No, no _please_… you can't tell," she muttered, like a victim backed into a corner, "you _can't_… something _bad_ will happen…"

"Molly," Peter called, curiosity piqued by the bizarre statement, "_what_ will happen? To who? We can _help_ –."

"No you _can't_… Matt made us _promise_ not to tell _anyone_ we saw him… Janice and the baby… they'll _die_…"

"I don't understand, why would –"

"Wait," Claire interrupted, numbing revelation thumping with her accelerating heartbeat. "_HE_ gave that to you, didn't he. In _India_."

"_Please_… please, I didn't _mean_ to… I don't want anyone to get hurt…" She began to openly weep.

Emma, reading lips and gauging body language, maneuvered the edge of the bed to kneel before the red-faced sobbing girl.

"Molly, we're here to _help_. No one will get hurt."

Behind her, Claire touched her chin to her shoulder, gazing at Peter as he levelly met her incontestably meaningful stare. This could only mean one thing – one _incredible_ thing.

"He didn't do it," Peter said to the room.

"He didn't do it," Claire repeated. "He _didn't_. I can't believe I'm going to say this. Sylar's _innocent_. Everything he said," she shifted her intensity to the revolting yet gradually closing chasm that still separated his chest, "_everything_… it's all _true_." And now she had _proof_.

"But wait, that doesn't explain _this_." Peter crossed to his niece as he rummaged through a pocket, procuring a wrinkled, folded piece of paper. Claire accepted it and shook it open, scanning the short, clipped message scrawled inside.

"Okay," she told him, passing it back, "don't ask me how I know this because I _really_ don't want to go into it and if it comes up later I'll only deny it… but I can tell you beyond the shadow of _any_ doubt that that is one hundred percent _not_ Sylar's handwriting."

"You're _that_ sure?"

"Absolutely. It's not annoying enough."

"Uh… really?"

"_Seriously_ not talkin' here."

"Then… whose is it?"

"It's Matt's," Molly affirmed having stolen a peek at it. "_Matt's_ the one who's in trouble – he called Mohinder and told him so. Whoever has kidnapped Janice and the baby are making him do things… things he doesn't wanna do. He made us promise not to tell anyone we saw Sylar, but I don't know why. He just said they'd be killed if anyone knew… You guys, you can't tell – _please!_"

"Because he's being framed," Claire revealed.

"_Exactly_," Peter concurred, elated by the prospect that there was actual _truth_ in his newfound friend's ardent sincerity. "If he has an alibi then whoever's responsible for this no longer has a scapegoat, and their plans fail. Mohinder's not here to find Matt – he's here to find _Janice_, isn't he? Get her safe first?"

"Yes."

"Then that's what we have to do – we have to find her and get her free. Come on, let's go talk to the others."

"_BUT!_ –"

"_Molly_ – seriously, there's not a soul here that's gonna let anything happen to that family. And you and Mo can't do this alone – you _need_ help. We can get this fixed and get them safe, I _promise_. With Noah's resources and all our powers? This was the right place to come. It's _gonna_ be okay, okay? Look at me." He came up beside Emma and removed a rubber glove, cupping the girl's jaw protectively in his warm, powder-coated hand, making her seem small. "I _mean_ it, alright? I _promise_." He dried her tears and led her from the room, beckoning for Claire's additional presence as they left.

"I'll be there in a bit," she dawdled, brushing crumblies from her clothes, "I'm gonna take a shower. I still look like the Swamp Thing met Freddy Krueger."

"Alright."

Probably just as keen to avoid the impending confrontation as Claire was, Emma busied herself by sweetly covering Sylar's sleeping naked body with the comforter, heaped in a disheveled pile at the foot of the bed. As Huong settled in for the night next to her husband, Claire tucked her hand into her jacket pocket to inspect her cell phone, which had obnoxiously protested earlier about the dire predicament affecting the life of its battery. Before it died completely she was able to listen to several voicemail messages, mostly originating from her distraught mother calling in ill-fated attempts to try to contact her missing daughter. One such message went so far as to apprise her of Gretchen's circumstances, and that both of them would be allowed to take the remainder of the semester off to fully recover from their harrowing ordeal. Subsequently, they would be required to finish their coursework as a block class offered during the interim session – upon completion they would receive full credit and an appropriate grade. Dizzy and floating with relief – Gretchen _was_ alive! – blanketed by the growing darkness of the evening and the lethargic droop it brought with it, she found herself losing interest in the shower. Giving up, she kicked off her shoes and slid back the opposite corner of Sylar's musty quilted bedding. Tossing a hand toward the lamp, her movements were arrested by Emma sizing her up with a quizzical look from the doorway.

"I think I'm actually too tired to shower," she explained, "I'll do it in the morning."

This didn't satisfy the woman.

"Oh," Claire caught on, "_HIM_. Right. Well, there's only so many beds, right? So _someone's_ gotta share with the guy, and I don't figure anyone _else_ will want to… and I just shared a _cave_ with him sooo… I'll be fine. Seriously. He can't hurt me. And I doubt he even knows where he is, anyway."

To this, Emma merely grinned in amusement and hit the switch by the doorway, casting the room into glorious tranquil peace. Claire was asleep before her head even landed on the pillow.

* * *

Sylar was jolted into consciousness by the tingle of icy dripping, cascading down his cheeks, nose, and forehead. His first impression was that he'd been captured and was currently undergoing some form of torture.

Sylar did not respond well to torture.

Well, from _his_ perspective, his response was just _fine_, it got results… it just wasn't usually ideal to anyone _else_.

He pushed with one giant telekinetic swell which was met by two feminine squeals followed by a pair of clumsy thuds. He ripped apart his eyelids at the commotion, whose qualities were far different than what he'd expected, to find Emma overturned in a corner by a sink, and Claire hauling herself to her feet by the door. He flew bolt upright in bed. Nothing made any sense.

"What the… _hell_… what's going on – where am I?"

"Motel room. Midland, Texas," Claire answered in an even timbre, her expression searing his insides with something disconcertingly earnest. He had a hard time pulling his eyes away.

Emma leaned in again, a wet rag still occupying the hand she smeared against his face.

"You're covered in mud and blood."

Despite his failed endeavor to escape he wound up capitulating to her insistent mothering.

"The cave… we… we got out..?"

"Yes."

"Heh, yeah, _obviously_ we did, but… Did… how did…"

"You were shot."

"Yes, I know, I remember, but that doesn't explain –"

He made the mistake of rocking backwards and sailing the comforter off of his bare legs before he furiously stamped it back down over them. With a reproachful glare he eyed the two women.

"Why am I naked." It wasn't a question, it was a demand.

"You were shot," Claire repeated, ambling away from her perch.

"Yes, thank you, I know, I got that already –"

"And you're not naked."

"Great. It's _you_. And your _word games_. Okay, alright then, fine – try this: why am I in a '_particular state of undress_'?"

"Because you were _shot_."

"Dammit Claire, seriously, are you _stuck_? Because I'm legitimately –"

Emma silenced him with a firm, staid hand – one that strayed across his breast to where a finger drew a gentle circle just above his heart.

"_You were_ _shot_."

At first he was irritated. _More_. Irritated _more_. Then slowly the subtle meaning that the women had been trying to impart finally dawned on him, parting his blanched lips and dropping his chin like a child mortified by a shameful lie. It wasn't a piece of information he'd been too awful enthusiastic about sharing. Ignoring his unease, Emma reverted to sign language trusting he'd have some esoteric way of mystically being able to translate.

"There are some bags in the bathroom that have clothes and toiletries," she said before pointing, "I'll let you get cleaned up. The others are getting breakfast."

As if on cue, his stomach reminded him that yes, he was in fact ravenous to the point of cannibalism. Emma adroitly exited the room, leaving behind what was sure to be yet another painful encounter with Claire Bennet. _Alone_.

"I saw Molly's necklace," she began, taking a seat on the mattress, catching him off guard. He scoured her face, probing for any sign that depicted her behavior to be a trick. "It's beautiful."

He knew what she was _really_ trying to tell him, her pride wadding the words like cotton balls in her cheeks.

"Yeah, well… I was considering engraving as a fun hobby… but that was five minutes before I decided it was actually a huge pain in the ass."

"I believe you," an urge forced her to blurt against her will. "Oh – not about the engraving, but –"

"_I know._ I know what you mean."

Vindicated, he could only nod, desperate not to betray his gleefully quivering insides to the girl and spoil the moment. Feeling awkward, she dimpled a patch of carpet with her toe.

"In the cave," she continued, "you asked for a chance." Her face maligned into something almost vicious as she stood, leading him to believe that whatever confession she was about to make was likely difficult enough to necessitate a hasty retreat. "You have one. _ONE_. And I can't speak for anyone else – this is just for _me_. If youvalue anything at all you _won't_ fuck it up."

And with that she was gone. He held his breath until the last billowing tips of her fluttering gold rounded the corner and disappeared into the grey early morning mist. He thought he might never breathe again for fear of waking up.

**A/N #2: I love Emma. I just wanted to say that. =D**


	11. Planting Seeds

**********A/N: Guys, the prospect of a Heroes mini-series (ala Farscape style) has me seriously out of my funk. I know it's not carved in stone, but for now I'm still excited =D Soooo what've we got in THIS long-overdue chapter? (again, my apologies, summer is eating me) Weeee have the return of Angela Petrelli! We have Molly-is-awesome! And, naturally, we have more insufferable Sylaire banter and the glorious return of naked!Sylar! And he's WET this time, too! YAY! And we also have Virgil the OC - in case you don't remember him, he was the dude Noah was talking to on the phone when he and Edgar and Mohinder and Molly were boarding the plane that left Atlanta (where they had dinner at Houlihan's I think it was) and took them to Midland, TX to search for Claire in a Cave. Wheee on with the show!  
**

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**11) Planting Seeds**

_A delicate pressure woke her, like the fishbowl feeling of too many eyes. Angela Petrelli mushed the Tempur-Pedic foam mattress under her hip bones as she rolled to a sitting position, ears straining in the darkness for whatever dragged her from her slumber like a doe listening through the whispering forest for the tell-tale crunch of a hunter's boot. The midnight stillness bore a supernatural quality that was unnerving, freezing her in the anticipation of a haunting apparition's chilling appearance… one that never came._

_Hitching up the hem of her nightgown, she toed her feet into waiting slippers and reached for her red silk robe, wrapping its luxurious length securely around her trembling body. Taking no chances, she removed the small pistol she kept in her nightstand from its hiding place before she crept vulnerably into the hallway to see what was so subtly the matter. _

'_Mom,' a diaphanous voice wafted down the corridor, dangerously twitching her trigger finger and sending her free hand to claw at her chest in surprise._

'_Peter?' she returned, eyes peering unadjusted into the dark, padding feet shuffling static electricity. 'Is that you? Why don't you turn on the light?'_

_The answer she received was indistinct. Mumbles like bouncing moths flitted through the stuffy black, confusing her thoughts and tensing her shoulders. She entered a moonlit greenhouse foyer that connected two wings of the estate where tall, rushing shadows out on the lawn caught her attention and stopped her in her tracks._

'_Get away from the windows, mom – they'll see you.'_

'_Peter? Where are you? Who are –'_

'_There's no time ma – they're coming for you! You have to hide!'_

_A burst of flame split the night and rocked her back on her heels in gasping fear. Dancing fire licked across the dew-dotted grass undaunted before it climbed a shape she hadn't seen, obscured by the night. Dazed fingertips nearly dropped the gun as she stumbled to escape the terrifying vision that stared her down so menacingly – a cross that burned like a torch in her yard, an unholy beacon allowing ghastly demons to cross from the very gates of Hell to swallow her whole if they could find her. And they were looking…_

_She slipped away from the hungry eyes of the milling figures outside and staggered through the mansion until she collapsed into a large, plush chair in the front sitting room, shakily relinquishing her weapon to the tea table situated in front of her, nearly knocking over a priceless antique conversation piece. As she drug a weary hand over her sleepy eyes, she clamped it over her mouth when a sudden loud, foreboding 'bang' clamored from the front door._

'_Mom –'_

'_Open it,' said another voice, familiar but failing to present a face._

'_I can't help you here, ma – I can't find him to stop him. You'll have to figure this out on your own.' _

_What did he mean?_

'_Peter, I –'_

_BANG BANG BANG._

'_Open it, Ms. Petrelli.' A man materialized before her, born from a pinprick of light to take the form of the police officer, Matt Parkman. It was then that she began to take heed – she wouldn't randomly dream about him for no reason. 'Trust me, this isn't going to go away until you do. There's something you need to learn.'_

_His tone curled around her throat to cup her chin and caress her ears and her mind, assuaging her escalating alarm into a bland, hypnotic state of trust. Led as if in a trance, she stood and brushed the wrinkles free from her garment and followed him toward the source of the noise._

_BANG BANG BANG._

'_Ms. Petrelli, please, you can't!' cried another voice from beside her right arm as it reached for the shining, gilded doorknob. This one she'd never heard before. 'I have vital information for you – you need to hear me!'_

'_Who are you?'_

'_Ignore him, Angela,' Matt beseeched, 'open the door.'_

'_No! You mustn't!' Another man coalesced from a foggy mist – he was no one she recognized. Dreaming of strangers was diagnostic of prophecy – much to Parkman's dismay, she dropped her arm. 'Not before you hear what I have to say! My name is Virgil – you know me, you just don't remember me, I used to work for you long ago. I have information for Noah, he asked me to do some digging – my intel is crucial to anyone who works for you, I think I know what's happening! I need to talk to you, but if you see me then it's too late! You must leave this house tonight and trust I will find you later!'_

'_Forget him and open the door, Angela.' _

_She clung to every last foreign detail carved into the lines across Virgil's unknown face with iron clad memory as his image slowly faded from view. He was essential to her waking world – he was a harbinger. _

_BANG BANG BANG._

'_Angela,' Matt called a bit more insistently than was really necessary, 'this will all stop when you open that door. Please – they're hurting her. Just do it and get it over with.'_

_Hurting who? Claire? Certainly not… then who? Someone Matt knew?_

'_Angela –'_

'_Alright! Enough already!'_

_Impatient from the constant badgering, she violently twisted the knob and ripped the door open. Waiting for her on the other side was a mob of angry people, bombarding her with a wall of sound made up of harsh expletives and vulgar obscenities. Smoke singed her nasal passages, and she bemoaned the loss of her forgotten gun at the sight of so many purposeful shotguns and rifles. Heading them all, his presence filling her front porch as his thumbs dug behind his opulent Texan belt buckle, was rotund man in alligator boots with a gleaming sharktooth smile who stunk of power and villainous ruthlessness. He spat the toothpick on which he'd been chewing at the first of her sprawling steps as he lifted one meaty paw toward her – every animal instinct in her body was repulsed, begging her body not to accept the invitation._

'_G'd'evenin', ma'am. I'd introduce m'self, but I think you already know who I am.' The chuckle that followed dripped with pure evil. It wasn't, however, the first time Angela Petrelli had stared cold into the face of the devil himself. Regal and diplomatic, she steeled herself, unwilling to show him her quivering knees, and she formulated her carefully metered response._

'_Yes, Mr. Culbertson, I'm perfectly aware of who you are. I would ask that you kindly remove yourself and your followers from my property, but I know you'll only choose to ignore my request, so I must ask: to what end do you tax my person with your lecherous company?'_

'_You're a brave ol' girl, Mrs. Petrelli, yes you are indeed. But I ain't here to cause you any trouble – jus' wanna show you what you're up against, s'all.'_

'_Then I would bid you good night, after all you've made your message abundantly…'_

_The words fell from her empty lips. Over his left shoulder a man in a black suit with a white collar – a habit typical of the vestments of faith – stepped laboriously toward the giant blazing emblem throwing contorted silhouettes around the whole of the premises, making it seem as if the very ground were squirming beneath their feet. He was bent beneath the load he carried in his aging arms, which he dropped unceremoniously once his feet reached the smoldering pyre. _

_It was the body of a blonde woman._

"Ms. Petrelli."

"No…"

"Ms. Petrelli, please –"

"Peter! Where's Peter!"

"Angela!"

"We must –!"

She opened her sleepwalking eyes to be greeted by Rene's smooth coffee complexion. He had been shaking her gently, just enough to rouse her – the cool breeze had done the rest. She stood before the open doorway, hand still resting on the doorknob, facing the western lavender of an early spring dawn.

"What did you see?" the Haitian asked her.

"Our enemy… who is apparently converging upon us. Go quickly – gather the Brittons and pack their bags, we must leave before Virgil arrives."

"Virgil…?"

"He said he worked for me."

"Virgil Lawry?" She could only stare mutely at his recognition of the name. "Yes – he was a company agent, and I do believe he left a message on your machine while you were in the bath last night. A man did call and say he was coming here with information for you."

"Well, then we have no time to lose. We must flee _immediately_… or I fear something terrible might happen."

**(lately has been screwing up section separators - so this will have to do... /grumble)**

Virgil dialed Noah Bennet's number enthusiastically as he pulled the armored Suburban onto the expansive drive rolling away toward the Petrelli estate.

"Hello," the answering voice hushed on the other end of the line.

"Have I caught you at a bad time, buddy?"

"No, Virgil, it's okay – had a, uh, _rough day_ yesterday, most folks're still asleep. You wouldn't be calling if you didn't have something for me."

"What – we never just shoot the breeze anymore? I think you still owe me lunch!" His discoveries made it difficult to hide his good nature.

"Tell you what – you give me something that'll make these guys leave my daughter alone and you got yourself a fat steak dinner, all the trimmings. Deal?"

"Deal, my friend, and you better pony up, I've got expensive tastes. But first I have to tell you, no matter how much I dug, I didn't see any evidence that your boy Sylar's had any physical association with this Neil Culbertson fellow whatsoever, in spite of the fact that some of these killings seem to fit his description."

"Oddly enough, I can corroborate that… we actually have him with _us_. And the crime scenes Lauren and Tracy have been investigating so far haven't turned up any real _bodies_, if you can believe that…"

"I'm inclined to believe just about anything at this point, Noah, given our history."

"Yeah, so our theory about Sylar is out the window."

"Right, but that's not the important part. There _is_ a connection between Culbertson and Bartlett & Wells. Culbertson has been lobbying Congress hard over this Para-Human Registration and Licensure thing, and a lot of his funding has come from there. They've been partners in business for a long time, keeping a proper cash flow from his family's oil fields into the domestic market. I get the sense from some of the communications I've gleaned that there's a general feeling of para-human distrust –"

"You don't say –"

"– in that an ability could be the answer to the global energy crisis, in which case fossil fuels would, if you'll pardon the pun, go the way of the dinosaur. I don't think anyone's forgotten Ted Sprague."

"_Right_. I can see where someone like _him_ might not be all that healthy for Culbertson's business model, sure."

"But that's not the _only_ place where he's been receiving meager contributions." Virgil pulled to a stop in the front circle drive facing a vivaciously animated stone fountain spurting glittering water into the mid-morning sunshine. "There's a _church_ on his ledgers – the Church of the Solid Rock, based in rural parts outside of Houston."

"And I'll just bet buddy is a member of the congregation."

"Yep, and guess who else is."

"Shoot."

"The same guy that got arrested for the house fire in Boston, and another guy who got picked up for harassing an elderly couple in a New York City subway station. My list actually goes on from there – _all_ of whom were responsible for attacks on specials before Sylar came to be implicated."

"And they're Preservists, aren't they."

"Yes."

"So it would seem that Neil and his cult are the tie that bind this church and this marketing company together."

"It would appear that they're all part of the same entity, yes. And then there's the question of their pastor…"

"Oh really?"

"Yeah – it would seem that all of this activity really got its start when Brother Jacob Murphy returned home from a mission trip to Venezuela. I've found a few notes that allude to the fact that something about the trip went really, really wrong, but I couldn't get a better description than that."

"I suspect something para-human happened."

"So do I," Virgil returned. "It was immediately after that that the church started to grow a huge online presence, spreading it's message all over the Midwest, gaining followers. The same developers for their website did work for –"

"Lemme guess, Bartlett & Wells."

"The very one. I think it's obvious that they're starting to reach toward the coasts, and from there they're going international. Through Culbertson, they're able to enlist some pretty heavy people, like Governor Schwarzenegger for instance – they just had a long, friendly meeting not long ago. The state of California seems pretty receptive… If they get his legislation passed it's the precedent the Preservists need to trigger a domino effect that might end up being nearly unstoppable. Noah, the more the American people like him, the harder it will be to convict him of whatever crime he's committing."

"So he's hiding under an umbrella of charisma and influential connections. How on earth are we gonna stop _that_?"

"Well, for starters, I'd take it to the source. I'd be curious to know what happened to Brother Jacob in Venezuela. I mean, he started a _whole movement_ as a result, and enlisted the help of a really powerful man. I would want to understand where he's coming from. Then I'd gather as much evidence as possible and fight fire with fire. I'm at your boss's house right now – gonna try to convince her to take a more public approach."

"Virgil, I never told you who I worked for."

"Yeah, what you _said_ was, '_it's probably best you don't ask who I work for_,' so I just naturally assumed you were referring to Angela."

"I'm becoming transparent in my age."

"Children do that to you. Speaking of children, whether you like it or not, your daughter's kind has their own spokesperson and that person _is_ Claire… which is what Culbertson wants with her. Maybe the nation needs to hear her side of the story, what happened to her, and maybe they need to see what connection lies between the Preservists and these killings."

"This is a little different than a Ferris wheel, Virgil."

"I know, but she's a big girl now and we both know you can't change people's opinions after they've formed them – you have to act _now_. And I wouldn't let Sylar too far out of your sight, either. If they have _him_, they can do whatever they want in his name and never have to take their share of the blame."

"That's why they attacked Gretchen," Noah mumbled.

"Whassat…?"

"Oh – when they kidnapped Claire, they attacked her roommate, Gretchen."

"Yes, I know…"

"They made it look like Sylar tried to kill her. They wanted Claire to believe he was guilty just in case she ever escaped – and that's why. They were covering their bases."

"Planting a seed, more like it. But if she goes public and Angela presents our case to the Government, and if you can keep Sylar out of their hands, we could win this."

"I dunno, Virgil… it just seems like we'll need so much more…"

"You _need_ to find out what happened to Brother Jacob Murphy."

"And I also need the man they've got coerced into helping them. I _need_ Matt Parkman."

**(lately has been screwing up section separators - so this will have to do... /grumble)**

Virgil's chipper demeanor began to fade the instant he noticed that the closer his feet brought him to the glossy, hand-carved mahogany front door, winking at him with frosty panes of laser-etched glass, the further it receded, proving the entrance to the palatial residence to be infinitely unattainable. Things like that didn't happen in ordinary, cookie-cutter, normal-human reality… at least not _sober_. By the time his sluggish brain brought him to an about face, he found his vehicle to be equally elusive. Behind his left shoulder near the house, out of his peripheral vision, he caught the hint of movement, perhaps nothing more than a trick of his subconscious. It was more like a thickening of air, a zipping outline with no substance to give it a proper structure, like humidity rippling on the horizon at the end of a hot summer day. It circled him like a well camouflaged predator.

"Virgil? Virgil… Lawry? That's your name?" the thing spoke with a voice that rang between his own ears. Virgil found himself helpless to deny the claim, and began to slide headlong into debilitating paranoia. "Virgil, I want you to listen to me. You've come to see Angela Petrelli but she's already left. Tell me who you were just talking to on the phone."

"Noah Bennet," his lips betrayed him by moving on their own volition.

"Good. See? You're doing very well. Now, I want you to think back on the last few minutes of your conversation. Did he happen to mention the whereabouts of his daughter, Claire Bennet, or Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray?"

He didn't have to say anything, the innocently conjured phrases streaked through his mind like blinding neon. They were all leaving Texas, trying to convince Claire and Sylar to willingly give themselves up to protective custody, to take Claire's story public. They were coming back to _New York_.

The bodiless speaker had nothing more to say, but instead let a cottony tendril of some unnamed cognitive message coil around his rigid posture to where it planted a seed near his right foot. Upon an attempt to look at it, like feeling a tiny prick predicating the need to investigate the crawling sensation of insect legs wriggling across the skin, he discovered his jaw was locked tightly in place – the message was intended to be covert. He blinked twice and the world around him snapped back into proper perspective like a hemispherical rubber band. The effect was momentarily nauseating. Faltering a bit on his heels, he cringed and pressed probing fingers against throbbing temples, slowly waking up to the sense that the asphalt made under his toes.

Wingtips and the pant legs of a smart, grey suit stepped into his steadying view, nearly crushing the small red flower that had grown beside him from pure thought – one that Virgil suspected no one else could see. He straightened and swallowed against acid reflux, a side-effect of stress – he was surrounded on all sides by guerillas masquerading in the name of the Lord.

"My talented associate, Mr. Parkman, tells me your name is Virgil," the man in the grey suit muttered in a quiet tone that purposefully demanded close attention with the promise of dire consequences for any contradiction. True to usual Petrelli fashion, Virgil's affiliation with the woman had once again bitten him off more than he could chew. He should've thrown away Noah Bennet's number years ago. He should've sated his need for excitement and adventure with scuba diving or rock climbing or something – even those things would've been healthier than _this_ bile-inducing wad of shit. "Virgil, my name is Jim. Are you hungry, Virgil? We're calling for pizza – we're going to have a nice lunch while we wait. I think you should join us."

"You guys don't strike me as the anchovy type, at least," Virgil couldn't help but joke in the face of such a formidable adversary, "how bad can it be?"

Then he took a risky gamble and suddenly dropped to one knee. The pandemonium of heavy steel loading large caliber projectiles, taking aim from all sides, forced his hands into the air, squeezing his eyelids together in desperate surrender.

"I just need to tie my shoe."

He fiddled with the laces… and plucked his private communiqué from the invisible stem on which it'd grown. In an imaginary tuft of smoke, dissolving as he stood exuding harmless compliance, the tiny plant disappeared, leaving a statement of fact in its wake to stampede across his awareness like a garishly lit marquis:

'_If they can get Janice and the baby safe, we can end this. They need to go to Houston._'

Fleeing a bewildered Sylar who'd just been granted a gift more precious than he really deserved, Claire stepped out into the crisp, early morning air just in time to watch Hiro wave as he whisked Huong and Doc off to some other far distant set of coordinates within the blink of an eye. Decelerating at the scent of coffee, she poked around in the room next door for donuts or bagels as she eavesdropped on the remainder of their group, loitering outside by the van, ready to get on the move.

"It doesn't matter if mom's uncomfortable with it, it has to be done – it's for the good of potentially thousands of people," she heard Peter. "Don't you worry about _her_, leave her to _me_."

"It's not Angela that concerns me," Lauren added. "I mean, we're all aware that this is just a pipe dream, right? There is absolutely way in hell we're gonna get him to do this."

Claire didn't need to guess who they were talking about; she wasn't sure she wanted to hear any more. She would've made a B-line for the shower if it hadn't already been occupied.

"Well, maybe we should think it through a bit more," Tracy opposed. "Because, look at it this way – from what we're hearing, he says he's honestly making an attempt to pay for his crimes, so –"

"And you believe him?" Her father's usual cynical stance… she expected nothing less and was not disappointed.

"Noah, he sacrificed his life to save yours – and while no one here is contesting the fact that he's completely psychotic, and no one will ever trust him, you'd have to admit that was pretty unexpected."

"But it wouldn't be the first time he's tried to convince us he's something he's _not_, either" Mohinder growled.

"I know, but here's the thing – here's this guy that we've _never_ been able to take down. _None_ of us have been able to. And sometimes we've tried _together_. He's _insanely_ powerful, he's _tremendously_ scary, he's not afraid of a little blood… and he's on _OUR_ side. If we send him away –"

_Send him away…?_

"– we might be throwing away our sharpest tool."

"So you're actually saying you want to take the serial killer with us?" Mohinder argued. "And you don't think that's… I dunno, a little nuts?"

"While I don't necessarily agree," Edgar timidly offered his soft-spoken opinion, "and I don't really know the bloke as well as the rest o' you… gotta admit there sure were a lot of guns back at that cave… he's bloody useful, sure handed me arse to me once before. And I thought the whole point was to have his whereabouts accounted for – why can't we do that with 'im sittin' right next to us?"

"Folks, it's not even worth considering – this is _Sylar_ we're talking about," Noah answered as if no further discussion was required. "I'd like to keep our operations going forward as discreet and covert as possible – Peter said it best, there are lives at stake here, not the least of which include Parkman's wife and kid. The situation is more than a little precarious. I'd really prefer not to go forward by taking our first step with a giant target painted on our backs. It's true they're looking for us, yes, but only secondarily, and it's not like we all haven't been hunted before." He raised a finger to make his point. "Their primary targets, however, are _him_ and Claire. It doesn't make any sense at all to cart them around with us like we're baiting our own trap." Claire felt something leaden settle in her belly, shoving her previous appetite far, far away from the agitated gnawing in her middle. It was a feeling she'd come to know far too well over the years given how many times her father had spoken about her behind her back when he thought she wasn't listening. "Also, they are assets at this point – we can't take any chances with them – we lose them, we lose the fight." She could picture the encircling ring of faces, ineffectually trying to mask the discomfort at listening to the man talk about his daughter as if she were an arbitrary economic lump assigned some base monetary value. _Again_. "It really is the best plan to get them secured and accounted for before we move on. _Especially_ Sylar – if we can't validate his lack of movement and activity, then we have no case against these folks. It'd be completely defeating the purpose if he were running around out there with us, mixing it up with the bad guys. It'd be our word against theirs whose side he's on, and right now I think we wouldn't stand a chance. Tracy, you've been in the political arena – you know what kind of people we're up against, and what they're capable of. You know I'm right."

Chest heaving with indignant curses, Claire snatched up the plastic bags containing her scant few belongings and plopped down on one of the bouncy, disheveled hotel beds just as the door to the shower and toilet parted to admit Molly's small, towel-clad person.

"Oh! Hey, Molly… I, uh… I can leave…"

"No, it's alright, just shut the front door, will ya?"

Claire yielded to the girl's request before fastidiously organizing her things, awkwardly keeping her hands busy while preparing for her morning routine.

"Do I wanna know what the fuss is all about _this_ time?"

"I imagine you will sooner or later," Molly had no problem spilling as she yanked her underwear up beneath her towel. "They want you'n … _him_ to go into protective custody at the new Petrelli foundation… something about Hope er something. Anyway, they're, like, trying to keep the families of the murder victims safe there, I guess. It's supposed to be a good place to keep hidden while they try to get you to tell your story on the news or whatever. And they wanna be able to prove that Sylar didn't kill anyone so the bad guys'll be all guilty and stuff."

"Meanwhile, everyone else is gonna get totally shot all to hell because they sent the _ONE_ person who _can't get hurt_ off… into _HIDING_. Makes perfect sense. _Go Team Dad_."

"Well, but what if…" Molly began, trying to get her juvenile brain to piece together a coherent sentence while pulling her t-shirt over her frilly, pre-teen bra. "What if the world needs to hear your story, Claire? I mean, you're kind of a celebrity for people like us. Doesn't everyone deserve to know what these whackos did to you? I'm just saying… maybe you _should_ think about it, is all. And if they find you and capture you again, no one will ever know – it'll be too late." She cocked her hip and jutted a finger at the wall, indicating the room next door, with enough force to nearly topple the terry-cloth turban from the top of her freshly shampooed head. "And _HE HAS_ to go. We _have_ to win this, Claire, and your dad and Mo and everyone else is right – we can't if they have him."

"I know, but there isn't anything in the world that'll make Sylar do something he doesn't want to."

"Yes there is." Molly wandered diligently, placing one foot before the other toward the bed as digging fingers sifted through her right pants pocket, withdrawing the same silver watch locket that had sealed Sylar's surprising innocence the evening before. As she lowered herself to the mattress, a tentative thumb sweetly stroked the gracefully skilled engraving that Claire could now clearly see. "When he gave this to me, he told me he was sorry, and that he'd do _anything_ for me." A pause brought her head to her shoulder. "I'm gonna ask him to do _this_."

Claire had no initial response, stunned by clarity. The girl was right – her plan was absolutely fool-proof. Sylar was neurotic about many things, but emblazoned at the lofty precipice of his interminable list was the honor in truth and keeping promises. She had him by the balls… and yet she remained still, stoically inspecting her nightmare's apologetic gift instead of confronting him face to face.

"You don't want to go talk to him, do you."

"He makes my stomach sick."

"I know the feeling… he makes my head hurt." She tried not to focus on the psychosomatic parallel.

"Claire, you _have_ to come with us, _please_… Mo wants me to go too, to keep me safe, but I don't wanna be anywhere alone with… with _HIM_. _Please_ say you'll come too? Okay? _PLEASE?_"

As determined as she was to instinctually defy her father, supposing that all children unconsciously rebel against their parents as a part of growing up and earning independence or whatever, she couldn't deny that there was a burning, red-faced and bitter smidgen of logic to the concocted scheme. Maybe she wouldn't have choked on it so hard if her father had actually _included_ her in the planning phase instead of glorifying her as nothing more than an underage chess pawn. And she was powerless to resist such a heartwrenching plea. She sighed in defeat.

"Alright, alright. I'll come. And don't worry about _HIM_ – I'll talk to him."

After she dislodged herself from Molly's grateful yet suffocating embrace, she collected a bag containing shampoo, conditioner, shave cream, a razor, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and deodorant then disappeared into the shower to think about what she'd just agreed to.

**(lately has been screwing up section separators - so this will have to do... /grumble)**

Just when Claire thought her father didn't love her she discovered the napkin-encased bagel safely stashed in the bag that thinly harnessed her folded clothing. It was _blueberry_. Not only was he ensuring that she had a long-overdue breakfast, he took the extra effort to steal her favorite flavor before they disappeared. It was a good thing too – all that was left was plain and chocolate chip. Not that there was anything wrong with chocolate chip… it just wasn't _blueberry_.

Her lips moved in the mirror as she silently practiced her speech and toweled her hair, but the words leaked from her startled memory when the shower next door abruptly kicked to life. There was only one person who could've been its occupant. Tossing her towel onto the growing heap of damp bundles accumulating underneath the sink, she snatched her fruit flavored fare along with the remaining bagel box and some cream cheese, then marched to the neighboring hotel room faster than anyone could stop her. She planted herself Indian-style on the bed furthest from the door, spreading the soft dairy product with a plastic butter knife while she waited him out. A typical male, spending about as much time in a bathroom as he would a tollbooth, Sylar emerged just as she finished coating the surface of her doughy breaded ring, billowing rapidly condensing fog into the relatively dry air.

Unperturbed and dripping, his dark hair matted with water spilling rivulets down his face, neck, and back, he loosely clutched at a towel slung low across his hips as he reached for the bag of items Emma and Peter had donated to him. One wet foot squeaked across the tile, however, when he jumped to the realization that he was not alone. Bag in one hand and the other twisting to cinch his modest covering a little tighter, eyes wide and nervous, he straightened as she rattled a cardboard box in his direction.

"Bagel?"

Simultaneously they both grimaced when they recognized that accepting her offering meant letting go of… something. Which was nothing either of them wanted.

"Clothes," he returned, giving his bag a little swing.

"_Yes_."

"Yes. Fuckin' _wordy_ bunch we are this morning," he muttered curmudgeonly as he turned to retreat to the steamy but private shower and toilet cubicle to dress.

"You like chocolate chip?" Claire hollered to be heard through the door.

"Sure."

"Cream cheese?"

"Uh, no." There was rustling and hopping on one foot. "No, thanks. So, uh… so you guys haven't _left_ yet."

"Nope, still here Captain Obvious."

"Don't be a bitch, Claire, I just didn't expect to see you still here is all."

"What, did you think we were gonna, like, _sneak out_ on you while you were in the shower?" He really thought they would just _leave_? "Yeah, that's awesome. '_Hey guys, watch this!_'"

What the hell was she thinking, of _course_ that's what he thought.

He reappeared as a tangle of elbows and arms stretching a black t-shirt over his head to where it slid down the lean triangular frame of his long torso. Protruding ribs told her he hadn't been eating well for a while – things weren't going so well for the reformed killer.

"To be honest, I thought I was gonna wake up alone in a _cave_…"

"Well, you saved my dad's life… couldn't just _leave_ you there…"

He received the bagel she handed him, cupping it over in his hands while his dramatic brows pulled together in an expression of poorly veiled yet exquisite self-loathing.

"That must've been hard," he murmured, moving away to lean against the counter, "not backing down. How long did he stand there and fight you?"

"Well, there were more guys with guns coming, so…"

"Right..." His jaw clenched with a misery he preferred to disguise, so he casually looped the bagel over one finger while his narrowed eyelids never left his sock-clad toes. "And I suppose the bullet just kinda magically, all on its own, sorta like _leaped_ out of my hear – uh… my, umm, my _chest_, right? Just like that? Because there's no way in hell _any_ of those guys would _ever_ –"

"Peter pulled it out."

"Yeah, and I bet he's real popular right now, too…"

"Look, I know this must be uncomfortable for you, so –"

"Uncomfortable? Claire, do I need to remind you what the score is here?" The bagel was relegated to the counter behind him to free his excited fingers for spurious counting, "I killed _your_ real parents in _really_ horrible ways, _slaughtered_ Molly's folks while she _hid_ from me in a closet, ruined her life, killed Mohinder's dad, Peter's brother, Tracy's booty-call – and that's just keeping track of the folks that are _here_ with us. So that's what, you guys eight, me zip?"

"Technically Peter's brother, my real dad, and Tracy's… you know, they're the same –"

"You were right. Congratulations, you've been right this whole time, I hope you're happy. I _AM_ a psychopath!"

"Yeah, I was wrong actually, psychopaths don't express remorse –"

"How am I supposed to walk out there? How am I… how am I supposed to _live_?" A blank spot in the far corner of the room became the new subject of his woefully destitute glare. "I… Claire, I woke up this morning lucky to be _alive_. And now I'm not so sure that… I'm not sure it was for the best. I mean, what do I _do_?"

She was trapped. Stunned into voiceless paralysis, she hadn't really planned on becoming the sole witness to his emotional breakdown as he bore to her captive ears the ills that plagued the tarnished soul of a rehabilitating homicidal maniac. And yet, she feared what would happen if she brought his tirade to an unwilling end. He had her unfortunately rapt attention.

"It's true, yes, I saved a bunch of people in Central Park," he went on. "Emma told me all about it. _Peter_ told me all about it. Said it was '_thousands of people_'… although it looked more like hundreds if I had to be honest. I wanted to become a… a protector, a _hero_, a better person because I thought… I thought it would _fix_ everything… that it would take this, this… _thing_ inside me and make it _STOP_. But it _doesn't_ – everything is still there, still just… _jagged_, right beneath the surface. And I thought losing my powers would take it away – like this constant nagging ringing, or like a _hunger, _I don't know what to call it – but it _won't_. _Nothing_ will. _Nothing_ ever changes. I have nothing, I have no one, I have spent my whole life watching everything I want just slip away, just out of reach…" He dropped to a crouch and pressed his chin against folded, slender fingers – retired, innocuous tools once used for unleashing bloody destruction. "You know," he whispered, "I told you once – I think it was when I handed you your skull back – that I could never have killed you, even if I could… because you were _special_. Do you know what I meant?"

She could do nothing more than dumbly gape.

"You have a pure heart, Claire. You all do… well, except your _dad_, but _you_ most of all. So clear, so good… so… _persistent_ in its direction. _Forthright_. You have _everything_." He closed his eyes and swallowed, but he didn't grant her enough of a pause to tactfully change the topic. "I hate you," he expelled through his knuckles, "hate you all. I've murdered because I hated you. I stopped murdering because I'm alone. And I can't stop being alone because I can't forget all the things I've done. Every person I see is just another face in a sea of dead faces, accusing me, reminding me of what I am... What am I supposed to do about that? How am I supposed to have a life? How am I possibly ever going to get through this? You should've just let me die in that cave, Claire. Would've been easier on everyone. You know, your face got tattooed on my arm because you were supposed to have some sort of answer for me, something I needed. So, tell me this: where the hell am I supposed to go now?"

An impatient thrill raced through her as she internally rejoiced – he _finally_ unwittingly blabbed himself into a perfect segueway.

"Well, you can't go _home_," she quickly interjected.

"…huh?"

"Oh come on, I didn't exactly come in here to peep on you in the shower or anything… you _have_ to know they're all out there talking about you. If you're wondering where you're supposed to go, I _promise_ you it's been discussed and a conclusion has been reached… so maybe I have your answer after all."

He peered at her skeptically – he was already sure he didn't like where this was headed.

"Claire… I cannot even fathom where on earth your dad must want me to go –"

"Oh, I think you _can_."

"Is it made of concrete and plexi-glass? Because if the answer's yes, I'd rather be dead in a cave."

"You said that already, I know. And I don't think they're actually gonna put you in a _cell_ this time –"

"Oh my god you're serious –"

"– _but_, and it _kills_ me to say this so it must be true, I think my dad is right. These people… whatever it is they want from me, they want it badly enough to keep me out of the way. If they've done it once, they'll do it again and do a better job this time. And _you_, as long as they've got _you_ where they want you, they can keep taking advantage of your past as a sort of misdirection." She hoped to plant a tiny seed of guileless persuasion when she added, "They're gonna keep _using_ you."

"So, you want me to believe that you're… _okay_, all of a sudden, with being daddy's little prisoner again? Just like that?"

"I _want_ to keep potentially thousands of people from being victimized. I _want_ the bad guys to lose. And if you and I are the keys to their success, then yeah, I guess I don't really want them to have us. Is that crazy?"

He found his feet, advancing on her in unmitigated incredulity, stooping to meet her eye to challenging eye.

"Almost as crazy as rolling over and playing dead… _hiding_ like, like, like mewling fucking _kittens_ and doing absolutely _nothing_ in some little plastic playpen who knows where!"

"Upstate New York."

"Shit, Claire, whatever! Seriously – you're telling me that these guys attacked your best friend, shoved you in a hole underground, are holding people close to you hostage, and are committing god knows how many other countless acts of inhumanity against our people, and you don't want to get out there and _DO_ something about it?"

"That's funny – says the guy who just wants to '_die in a cave_'…"

Sweat, or leftover moisture from the shower, was beading on his snarling lip. He seized her with his dark pools fiercely enough she thought he might telekinetically twist her head off. And while the menace she provoked at having thrown his own words in his face refused to abate so easily, he rose and relaxed his stance, crossing both arms over his chest self-assuredly.

"I know what this is about. Same old shit, never fucking changes. You're afraid I'm gonna kill someone."

"Oh for crying out – I said I believed you!"

"_They_ don't!" He flung an arm toward the people in question outside.

"Forget about them – it's not about that, anyway!"

"Claire," he sneered dangerously, "look at me. I'm telling you _right now_ there's not a _single one_ of you that can make me be a Company zoo exhibit again. And let 'em try. I might've given up killing, but I'm _not_ opposed to self-defense."

But he was wrong – there _was_ one person who could make him do it. It was time to play hardball – time for the fledgling seed to grow into a choking vine of certain triumph. She sighed and let the hammer fall.

"Alright, look. I wasn't going to do this, but I don't know what else to say. I don't like this any more than you do, but the reason I'm going is because Molly begged me to. She told me that _you said_ to her that you'd do anything for her – _anything she wanted_ – all she had to do was ask. But she's terrified to talk to you, and I don't think anyone can blame her, least of all _you_. So, I'm here to ask you for her. You don't wanna do protective custody? _Fine_. I'm not here to make you _like_ it. I'm here to ask you to do it for _her_. And if you _won't_ do it for her, then… then do it for _me_."

Fuming, he stood and scowled at her in slack-jawed disbelief. Then, ravaged and conquered, his head lolled on his shoulders in reluctant capitulation, and she saw his sallow face was ringed with a weariness she hadn't truly noticed until then. With a dispirited groan he lazily pivoted to grab his bagel and he picked at it in a manner that lacked any real enthusiasm. Tense hostility drained from him as quickly as it had swelled, ebbing through his lips with a heavy sigh of resignation.

"Damn… son of a bitch… alright. Alright, I'll do it. But I have some conditions."

"Fair enough."

"I want an actual _bed_ this time, a bathroom with a _door_ on it, and I'm free to go after two weeks."

"_Two weeks_? That's not enough time to do anything!"

"Claire, do you even _know_ your dad…?"

"Give him four."

"NO. No fucking way."

"Three."

"Two and a half."

"_THREE_. Final."

"Fine. Fuck you. Three. Deal?"

"Deal. Thank you. Christ."

**(lately has been screwing up section separators - so this will have to do... /grumble)**

Claire walked out into the warmly waxing sunshine with perfect timing – an amusing spectacle was taking place before her very eyes. Surrounded by intent listeners, her father was bent over drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick.

"No, Edgar can't, remember? He's out of commission right now," Noah told Lauren. "While the police've impounded the van we left at the side of the road, they haven't had the time to sweep it for prints – he's off cleaning it up and scraping the VIN. Now. Tracy, I want you positioned here, and Mohinder, here. Emma, I want you with me and Lauren over… here. Okay. Peter, we'll start with you – I want you to go in there and copy his power of telekinesis. You're our first assault – do your absolute best to get him at least somewhere near the van."

"I dunno about this, he trusts me – why don't we just try talking to him first?"

"Peter, I know you think you've spent some time with him that none of us can relate to, and I appreciate that, but I need you to understand me when I tell you that that man is never going to trust _anybody_, and he's _not_ gonna listen to reason."

They… they were devising a plan… to _kidnap_… _Sylar_. Claire nearly bit her tongue in half to keep from laughing. She was tempted to let them go through with it.

"Now," Noah continued, "when he gets out of your grasp – and he _will_ – I want Tracy to freeze him. Tracy, you'll have to act quickly because he _will_ try to electrocute you. From there he'll likely use his power of disintegration to melt the ice at which point, Mohinder, I want you ready to give him a good blow to the head – you won't kill him, but I want him unconscious for sure. And if he gets through _that_, I'd like for Emma to call him back so we can start over again with Peter. We clear?"

"Noah, he _has_ Emma's ability now, he can probably cancel her out," Peter spat, wholly disenfranchised with the entire proposal. "And if I take his ability, then I lose the one I just got back from Hiro and we're stuck here."

"Well, it's not like we've forgotten Hiro's phone number or anything, but you bring up a good point. Maybe we should test how easily Emma's ability can be resisted – "

"No need," Claire called as she shuffled across the gravelly parking lot, mercifully putting an end to Noah Bennet's agonizingly futile war games. "Just relax, dad, he'll do it."

"But how can you – are you serious? How on earth did you –"

"Civilized conversation. It's been working wonders for millennia." She met Molly's smiling eyes.

"But –"

"You mean it – he'll go?" Peter grasped her shoulders and pleaded, thankful to get out of any action that might have put a strain on the nascent and tentative relationship he'd fostered between himself and his old nemesis. "He'll go to my mom's?"

"I can't imagine that your mom'd have him, but yeah, he's agreed to do it. But we should probably go soon, though, before he changes his mind. And I should probably mention he has some… _conditions_."

"Fine, whatever he wants," Noah breathed, obviously impressed with his daughter's latent talent for diplomacy. "I guess we should probably decide who's going where then. We've got a lot of ground to cover and a lot of work to do, and not near enough time to do it right."

**A/N #2: Okay, not a lot of action in this chapter - I opted for plot development, and a little character development too. We're starting to build the Sylaire relationship, she's seeing a side of him she's never seen, and he's getting more comfy showing it - this is progress people! Action next chapter, though, whether I like it or not, and I gotta warn you now, Angela's dream was, in fact, prophetic - there will be character death. Or, there will at least appear to be. (Oh, and I'm not killing Sylar this time... I should be more specific.)**


	12. Courage

**********A/N:** Wheee this chapter took forever! But, in my defense, I was practicing for an audition, and I ended up getting the gig - YAY for professional music! Anyhoo, I'm SO GLAD I finally finished this one so I can catch up on all my READING! Specifically, I'm lookin' at all the shiny new ficathon fics =D Mmm Mmm! I do have to warn, though - this chapter, while I'm very happy with how it turned out, does contain the dreaded character death - dum dum dummmm! And while it isn't readily apparent, there is a very good reason behind it. Well, enough stalling - on with the show! And thanks for reading, guys!

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**12) Courage**

Reading lips didn't come naturally to Emma, but, possessing the adult memory of spoken speech, she had to admit she did have at least one advantage over those who were born deaf. Well… okay, _two_. Her waistline had been getting quite the workout as she swiveled to follow the perplexing discotheque of blinking purple and red that zipped between each surrounding conversation. Just as she began to feel dizzy, Peter – bless him – made himself her sole focus and began to interpret everything her frenzied attention span couldn't compete with. Lauren was disinfecting the white enemy van from aft to stern of every smudge of evidence that depicted their presence while Noah was on the phone with a rental car company, procuring for those who were to remain behind a replacement mode of transportation. Tracy had just placed several plane tickets to Houston on the Hands for Hope expense account, and was currently speaking with Micah Sanders, trying to get the transaction electronically scrubbed, making it more difficult to trace. Naturally, a heartsick orphan like so many of their kind, he found it impossible to say no to someone who was, in many ways, identical to his dead mother. Though the two shared no true familial connection, she promised to ease his suffering by paying him a visit when her messy business was resolved.

"Houston?" Emma interrupted Peter's winded explanation, which was hastened by the need to catch her up and listen at the same time. The destination seemed a tad ambiguous considering she, Peter, Sylar, Claire, and Molly were teleporting back to New York.

"Yeah, that's where Molly said Janice Parkman is located, as well as that marketing company they've been talking about and the weird church – it seems like a good place to start their –"

Like a switch had been turned off, the swirling diorama of colorful serpentine tendrils fell away from where they hung in the air as every sound – every word, every sigh, every laugh – abruptly ceased to paint its reaching, trailing vibrations across the sky. She searched the circle of their peers for signs of distress, but found only stern faces silenced by what appeared to be a mixture of shock, ferocity, and wary anticipation. She turned once more to follow Peter's distracted, anxious gaze where it landed near the hotel room on the left. All previous activity having screeched to a halt, no further noise met her eager eyes, squinting against the rising morning sun, outside of a slight rustle of cool, springtime breeze wafting cottony spores and wispy pollen to where it could collect on windshields and crevices.

Sylar had stepped out of the building.

Tensed like a disgraced and submissive wolf with his hand still lingering on the doorknob, waiting to bare his teeth, tuck his tail, and take the bruises he knew were coming to him, he exposed himself to the scrutiny of those who would condemn him. Emma didn't need to be a mind-reader to correctly translate Peter's expression – this was either going to go well… or very, very badly. Neck and spine stiff with the tension of someone trying to dismantle a nuclear bomb, Peter craned to catch the other's attention, hopeful to diffuse an equally volatile situation. Judging by the pervading sense of heightened paranoia combined with what little Peter had told her of the man's history, she guessed that these people had legitimate grievances to address. She didn't want to imagine the amount of courage and humility it took to come out and face them. Fortunately for everyone gathered, however, Edgar's well-timed reappearance did a fine job of squashing any mounting aggression before it had a chance to manifest. Dusty light billowed from him as he addressed the general audience.

"Wait a second," Peter begged her as he held up a finger to shush her immediate questions so he could listen. "He… Oh yeah, of _course_, that's our luck. The cops are hot on our trail, looking for this van – think the shooters turned it in as a red herring. Doesn't help much that they impounded the other one."

"Noah," Edgar implored to his partner, "we should get moving, _quick_. I've got a rather lengthy Interpol file…"

"You and me both, friend. _And_ Lauren."

"I, uh…" Tracy spluttered, "I've got some charges I'd rather not face, too…"

The environment was once again stilled, this time by the pulsing, sparkling staccato of Sylar's languid, barking laughter. He dug one fingertip to prod at the gathering moisture in the corner of his left eye.

"So, help me understand something, because I'm genuinely confused," he chuckled devilishly with a sarcasm that shone with a sickly ochre yellow. "Is there anyone here who _hasn't_ killed a human being?" Looking around, aside from the obvious Molly and Claire, Emma couldn't find anyone who looked as innocent as she did with the exception of Peter. "_Oh my god_ that's awesome. Just… just _great_. So tell me, again, just so I'm clear – why the hell am _I_ the bad guy?"

"Because _you'd_ be hell-bent on cannibalistic genocide if you had the chance," Noah rebuked, famously incapable of holding his tongue.

"Dad –"

"Sylar, don't," Peter pleaded.

"No, Bennet. Aren't _you_ responsible for your _own_ share of crimes committed against our kind?"

"Sure, I'm not too proud to admit that I've destroyed some lives –"

"Destroyed some lives?"

"– but I've saved _FAR_ more than I've _ever_ taken."

"Yeah? Then that makes fucking two of us! The only difference is that I actually _WANTED_ to save them!"

"And there's no _telling_ what you hoped to gain from that!" Emma wondered if he was referring to New York, when Gabriel had saved so many through the course of saving her. "You're not fooling anyone here, you psychotic –"

"Hell, I even saved _YOUR_ life!"

"Guys, _please_, this isn't help–"

"You really think I'm the only person here who remembers your _last_ fabled attempt at redemption?" Noah prodded. "I was _there_ for that! Remind us all, again, how exactly that ended for you! How do you think Elle felt about that?"

Emma felt like a spectator at a tennis match played with scintillating missiles of multi-hued brilliance.

"Fuck you, you self-righteous prick! Fuck you, and _fuck_ Elle! We _both_ know how different things would've been if you'd _never_ –"

"Are you kidding me? You can't _possibly_ hold me responsible –"

"Of _COURSE_ you're fucking responsible! You didn't show up to '_save my life_', or whatever bullshit you wanna spew –"

"You had already killed!"

"You _KNEW_ I was no threat! You _KNOW_ what I was doing when Elle found me! You were there to create a monster! Your bullshit fucking Company just _HAD_ to have its monster! You _made_ me what I am! I never had a _chance_!"

"Dad…?"

"Don't listen to him, honey, he's just doing what he always does – trying to twist things so they make sense to _no one_ else but _him_."

"You really think she believes you?" Sparking little blue shockwaves rippled from his harsh guffaw. "When have you _ever_ told her anything truthful?"

"Now you leave her out of this!"

"Noah, we've gotta –"

"I mean, do you _ever_ stop manipulating? Have you _EVER_ come clean to your little girl about just how many bodies _you've_ put in the ground?"

"You shut your mouth, you worthless piece of –"

"So why are _you_ okay? Why are _you_ the hero? Why do _YOU_ never suffer? Not even when I know for a _FACT_ that you've got a count that's a _hundred_ times bigger than mine!"

"Yeah? So why don't you try explaining that to your _mother_, then, _GABRIEL_!"

"_DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!_"

Stumbling in fright, Emma reached for Peter when Sylar flung a hand out in front of him and Noah Bennet sailed backwards, as if his middle was attached to an invisible zip line, to crash into the side of the van. His first reaction, before even moving to right himself, was to draw his formidable weapon like grease lightning, cocked and loaded, shaking at the end of his outstretched arms.

"WOAH!" Claire cried as she stomped into the line of fire, creating a barrier between their wild-eyed and turbulent stalemate.

"Noah – don't!" Lauren leaped out of the van, alarmed by the sudden commotion.

"Hell in a handbasket," Tracy muttered to herself.

Claire dipped under Sylar's seething, hovering fingers and pushed a purposeful hand into his chest.

"Step back, dammit – _back_!"

"She's right, buddy," Peter calmed, presenting an open palm in a placating gesture, "you can be the bigger man here, just walk it off…"

"Bigger man?"

"Noah, shut up!" Lauren chastised her lover.

"Saved your fucking life," Sylar growled, scuffling back on his heels through the gravel, "should've just _left_ you there…"

"He's already agreed to go along with your plan," Lauren continued, "and you are _screwing it up_. Now, put that gun down – people are starting to stare."

Ignoring the soft, enveloping orbs of perpetuating conversation, Emma's eyes returned to Sylar. His fists were clamped at his sides as he quaked with internal warfare, determined to control his homicidal rage. Disarmed by Claire's plaintive touch, he stood with his shadowed face parallel to the ground before he turned it to examine the girl, Molly, as she cowered in tearful terror behind Mohinder's back, his shirt bunched in her gripping fingers. At the sight of her, his anger further evaporated like rising steam rippling off a simmering pot.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the gradually increasing calm. "I'm sorry I scared you. It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt anyone." It was the most valiant thing he could've said. "Peter," he turned to his friend, "isn't there someplace we should be going?" She didn't blame him for being anxious to create some distance.

"Yeah, come on, Molly, let's go."

Reluctant yet brave, she released her foster father from the strangle hold she had on his clothing as she ducked around to face him, shining a final parting glance up to him, filled with adoration and sluggish, child-like unease. She managed to pull herself away and join the semi-circle of her new travel companions, accepting Peter's offered hand in her own.

"Guys, be careful, and let us know when you find Janice," Peter told the others, to which Noah only somberly nodded.

"You take care of that little girl," Mohinder called with half-hearted warning, lingering between the protective instinct to race after her and the good sense to let her go.

"I will, Mo, it's okay. She'll be safe. Call us if you need us."

And with that, the scene before Emma winked out of existence to be replaced by the ostentatious yet cheerful exterior of the Petrelli matron's estate. Soured only by a tinge of guilt that she should still be in Texas helping those who might need her, she couldn't help but feel relieved to be home and in one piece, having only missed a minimal amount of time away from her job and her studies, and there was also a miniscule fraction of her that was excited to be introduced to Peter's mother.

Lazy butterflies flitted on springtime haze through the tranquil, fragrant gardens that framed the circle drive and lined the walkway leading to the home's stolid entrance. What she really wanted was a cup of tea and perhaps a bath, definitely a change of clothes – in civilization, she'd have a more difficult time explaining the dried blood that speckled her clothing following her recent internship in a makeshift trauma center. Perhaps the notorious Angela would be a gracious enough host to allow her the opportunity to get cleaned up. If how Peter turned out was any indication, the woman was likely a saint.

Emma trailed behind Peter's confident footsteps as he led them toward the front door when a sudden burst of red halted her progress and whipped her lover around on a dime.

"Stop!"

Turning to face the same direction, she found that Gabriel hadn't moved from where he'd stood, braced with one hand on the finely-sculpted, happily bubbling fountain that proudly stood as the focal point of the property's opulent first impression. He brought around his other hand and slid it across the smoothly chiseled stone.

"Peter… don't go in there."

"What are you –"

"It's a _trap_."

"What do you mean '_it's a trap_'?"

Gabriel closed his eyes and angled toward the hefty object to which he clung, bearing down in laborious concentration.

"Your mom is gone," he hushed a prophetic whisper, "and there was a man here… he came to talk to her… they have him… they're _here_." Swiftly, his eyes shot open and he straightened. "_Matt Parkman's_ here."

The creeping sense of foreboding escalated into certain threat when tufts of blue and pink sparkled in her periphery, alerting her to sounds perhaps no one else could hear but she could _see_. Holding her breath she drew her chin to her right shoulder, peering around in time to watch a troop of militiamen rise from their positions, hidden amongst the ornamental trees and topiaries, to take aim with fearsome looking guns.

They were surrounded.

**OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo**

"Molly… _no_…" Matt breathed an icy chill at the unexpected sight of the girl, so close yet so far away on the other side of the burgundy silk drapes dressing the classically paned window. When he'd probed Virgil's mind for information and had discovered that his captor's prey would, in fact, be coming to _them_ instead, the images he'd gleaned had been a little vague… and yet, here he was watching an innocent girl cringe in horror, the target of an angry herd of hillbillies pointing an armament of repugnant weaponry in her sweet face. He became a sulking stone when he felt Jim's irksome proximity at his shoulder.

"I recognize the Petrelli whelp," he sneered, "but who's the other blonde?"

"I dunno," he told the truth, "I've never seen her before." But then he remembered… when Peter had come to his house looking for a carefully concealed Sylar… he'd mentioned something about rescuing '_Emma_', someone special to him. He'd come to find out later that rescuing Emma had also meant rescuing thousands of other people, ones that she'd –

"You know, I've been in the intelligence business a long time," Jim mentioned nonchalantly, picking at a fingernail in a manner that suggested his remarks weren't intended to be offhand. "I've heard a lot of excuses, I've seen a lot of facial ticks, giveaways, that sort of thing. I've performed countless lengthy interrogations." His impactful eyes snapped to attention. "I _know_ when I'm being lied to." Two steps brought him closer than Matt found comfortable… if such a thing was possible. "And here we are, with that little girl out there, got a gun pointed at her head. Isn't that your little foster kid?" Matt didn't dare answer, afraid he'd blurt the words that were currently stuffed in his mouth – words that would be detrimental to Molly's health and welfare. "You see this?" Jim continued, lifting the cellphone he cradled in his meaty paw to where it could be more easily seen in proper light, the cuff of his dress shirt straining against the button. "This is the lifeline of your wife and little boy. All it takes is one phone call and... well, let's just say, with the cost of the average funeral today, I don't think you can really afford _two_.

"Now, I realize you could test me. I realize you could convince me not to punch in the numbers with your spooky little _mind_ powers, but here's the thing – I have a message programmed to a hot-key, a message I _promise_ you don't want anyone to get. It's like it's on speed dial. All I have to do," he wiggled the digit in patronizing portrayal, "is flick my thumb. Are you that fast? Are you fast enough to interrupt the nerve impulse between my brain and my thumb?" Matt simply glowered – he didn't want the man to know that he was actually considering it. "Yeah, didn't think so. So, now I'm gonna ask you again – who is she, and what does she do?"

He hesitated. Jim was unarmed – Matt could brainwash him into killing himself, if he only had a suicide weapon. And in the time it would take to persuade a gunman to do the trick for him, the aforementioned message would already have been sent.

"Need I remind you," Jim pressed, "that your foster kid has a bullet with her name on it. Right out there. Right in front of you."

"Let her go and I'll tell you."

"Hmm, no, how about this – you tell me, and I'll let her _live_."

There was no way he could possibly win.

"Alright, alright. Don't, just… I… I think her name is Emma, although I've never met her. If she _is_ Emma, then I believe she's capable of, I'm not sure how to describe it… some sort of mind control. She can lure people to her, and I think she can repel also."

"How many people?"

"Dude, I've never met her, how should I know? Two people? A _hundred_? I don't know!"

"But she makes people come to _her_."

"I think so, yes."

"Well. Now _that's_ very interesting. Was that so hard?"

**OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo**

"Sylar?"

There was an edge to Peter's voice that seemed almost maniacal and oddly permissive… although admittedly it could've just been wishful thinking, he was probably just scared. Sylar leashed a worn-out, exhausted restraint over his scarcely-contained murderous trend toward retaliation and afforded his friend a generous forty percent of his frenetic awareness. Just one twitch of a finger, all it would take… if _anyone_ made a bad move… Some ancient demonic impulse maligned his face into a feral, anticipatory grin – these guys did _not_ want to rub him the wrong way, not with the day he was having. Although a part of him hoped someone _would_ – he had some unspent aggression he would liked to have released.

"Can you do something for me?" Peter asked.

"Will it involve breaking bones? You know how I love flinging people."

"Whatever it takes – just _take care of the girls_."

The plea caught him off guard and he whirled about just in time to see Peter grasp Molly's hand before they both disappeared. He had no spare second to process the tiny puff of relief he exhaled at the thought that the child had been transported someplace safe – the heavily armed ring of thugs broke out into a din of raucous shouts, not quite understanding what they'd seen, as they collapsed inward on their quarry demanding answers and threatening violence. He didn't hear a single one of them.

"Kill me," a voice filled his head – a voice he knew far more intimately than he was _ever_ going to say out loud, "it's the only way to end this. They can't do anything without me to make their illusions for them and you to take the blame for it. They want to hide the one person who represented all of us and replace her with a man that everyone in tv-land is terrified of – can't you see? That's their agenda – if you're out there terrorizing people, regardless of whether or not their _ours_, people will forget all about Claire and start voting '_yes_' on legislation that treats us _all_ like something worse than sex offenders. And there's no telling what lengths they'll go to do it – they've got my wife and my little boy. _My little boy_, Sylar, he's just a baby, I know you know this. And I know you know I lied to you – I _did_ see something in you, something _has_ changed, I just… look, think about what happened, okay? How was I supposed to tell you that? With everything you did? I mean, the guy with the crowbar? Whose only crime was helping us change a _flat tire_? I think you know what I'm saying, but Matty's _innocent_, Sylar, and I _know_ this means something to you. _Please_, if I'm right – if what I saw in you wasn't a trick – then I'm begging you to do what's right and take one more life – take _mine_. It's the only way to stop them and free my wife and child. _Please_. Make my life the last one and it'll all be over. _Please_."

Sylar kept his face passive, unwilling to condemn the man and accidentally indicate he'd received any sort of telepathic communication. The task was an arduous one, however – in spite of the appalling acts he'd committed while sharing a body with Matt Parkman, and despite the bitter betrayal he'd received in response to an honest cry for help, the resulting deceit… _changed his life_. It woke him up, taught him lessons no one had ever cared enough to teach him, and shaped him into someone that could get _better_. There was no way he would ever fulfill Matt's request – he could never take his life.

"I told you I don't _KNOW_ where they went!" Claire's desperate bellow shattered his thoughts. "And _leave her alone_! She's _deaf_ – she can't _hear_ you! You're just scaring her!" She nudged a little closer to his side, piercing him with a private, protective thrill. "Sylar – _do something_."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"I'm not sure I care…"

"I think you do…"

"I –"

"It'll probably end up bloody…"

"As bloody as what they'll do to Emma?"

The statement was sobering, but it gave him an idea – they couldn't _hurt_ Emma if they didn't have any guns.

"_GET HER DOWN!_" he cried as he raised his arms. Everything moved in slow motion. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Claire launching from her position to tackle the other blonde to the ground just as a series of deafening shots sprayed a swarm of searing bullets that ripped agonizing holes through his arms and torso… yet miraculously missed the one spot that counted. Roaring with excruciating determination, he tunneled through the pain and strengthened his will, reaching out with a dozen invisible hands that he yanked backwards unceremoniously, tearing the blazing firearms from their owners to land in a molten hot pile of smoking metal at his own unsteady feet.

"Take your pick," he breathed to Claire as he faltered, nearly toppling as his tortured body slowly rejected the amorphous lumps of lead that had been pumped into it. "Shoot anyone who tries to get close." He needed a few minutes to recover, but the wary and agitated mob wasn't going to allow it, opting to strike while he was down, even if that meant using ineffectual fists. Reluctantly, Claire promptly bent and picked up a shotgun that was far too big for her, but wouldn't require a well-practiced amount of aim and was something formidable enough that no one really wanted to be hit by it. Emma, however, whose hands were more accustomed to far more intricate, delicate things, appeared as if she couldn't quite decide what she wanted to do.

A younger man in a red t-shirt near the front of the crowd – one who reeked of too much testosterone and misspent youth, and maybe a chilidog – was too impatient to think the situation through clearly. Temper bloated with foolish ambition, his sneakers pounded against the asphalt as he charged toward the still-healing Sylar… who was still amazed that people could be so woefully ignorant about what '_telekinesis_' really meant. Two fingers slicing hastily through the air meant the man became a projectile that mowed down a few more of his companions like bowling pins, but it turned out he was merely the stopper on the bottle. The minute his course was thwarted, three more took his place. Sylar didn't exactly want to keep this up all day, and was about to make the switch from pushing to slashing.

"Claire…? You have more weaponry than a redneck during deer season, what are you waiting for?"

"I…" He flung two more. "I – OH my god!" Red-shirt was back on his feet, blinded by prideful animosity, lasciviously grappling for her, calling her bluff – she wasn't going to shoot anyone, she was too scared. He was _wrong_. Through a clouded fog of elbows and distraction, Sylar had missed him stagger toward her and courageously tug at the barrel of the shotgun in a reckless attempt to take it away from her. Whether it was by accident or on purpose Sylar would never know, but the trigger got pulled and a resounding boom filled the sky followed by shrieks of grisly anguish – she'd blown a hole in his right leg large enough that the limb was likely irreparable.

She quivered in shock as Sylar sent a few more attackers sailing to land in ungraceful broken heaps on the lawn, and she stumbled away from the man's crumpled form toward Emma's bracing hands. Pale and shaken, she lifted the intimidating firearm a second time, slinging it around as if it provided a layer of protection. A second demonstration of the girl's tested limits, however, wasn't necessary – Emma had a different plan.

It started with a benign, pacifying hum – as off-key as a deaf person could muster, but likely a tune that was recognizable in her own soundless head. Her hands remained firmly at her sides, but her fingers splayed as if they were conducting some sort of force or energy. And then, one by one, as if unconsciously beckoned away by an irresistible call of the wild, all of the men turned and shuffled like mindless zombies down the drive and toward the gates that exited the premises.

Sylar leaned his hands on his knees, panting as sweat coated his brow, breathlessly watching them go.

"Absolutely brilliant."

"We should probably get outta here," Claire mumbled as the steel she held grew heavy and its muzzle clanged against the ground. "Do you remember, back in the cave, how you levitated me?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you can fly us out of here?"

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere – the Empire State Building, I don't care – just _away_ from here."

"Claire, you've got blood all over your pants."

"Okay, _fine_, not _there_, but –"

"It's alright, no problem, chill! But be aware, I'm gonna have to zip us outta here quick, so –"

A small '_click_' emanated from a gnarled and sprawling oak tree just behind and to his left – one that bore absolutely no similarity to squirrels chattering or twigs snapping. Acting on animal reflex, he spun around and never hesitated as he lit the spreading branches with sizzling, white hot electric bolts, startling Emma into a crouch with a gasp. One covert sniper fell to the ground with an ungainly '_thud_', his body still convulsing with blue sparks, while yet another dropped, cat-like, to his feet, weapon drawn. Claire was faster – she blasted a thunderous shot at him, but missed in her inexperience. Rather than bother with reloading, she scrambled crazily at her feet for another gun, hopelessly trying to arm herself before the other man could fire off another shot, but the scope on the rifle had already met his eye… before it sagged and became misshapen, and was hurriedly hurled as it disintegrated into a puddle of nothingness thanks to yet one more of Sylar's amazing stolen abilities.

In the pandemonium, however, he never noticed the third sniper on the roof of the house – not before his acute hearing caught the sound of a bullet entering a chamber. He heard one '_crack_' before Emma grunted and splattered his shirt with blood.

"No…" Claire choked as she tumbled forward to crawl toward the woman, reaching for her with trembling hands that were too rigid with disbelief to touch her. His pulse draining from his numbing lips, Sylar grew faint, nearly retching at the sight of the gushing hole in her forehead.

And then, as the air hissed from his lungs through grinding teeth as if he were caught in an ear-popping vacuum, the whole world became a blackened shroud of red and he was overcome by blind, malefic wrath.

"Sylar," Claire's sobs echoed to him across a widening and inescapable void, "they're coming…"

It was true – the men Emma had enchanted were freed from her spell the instant her lifeless body hit the ground. Swimming around again to consciousness, they remembered their objective and scampered over each other to return and fulfill their duty. What met them instead was a furious angel of hell.

Colliding with each other, they drew up short as they watched the body of a man leave the top of the mansion to disappear into the sky, never to be seen again. Their cowering shapes cast flickering shadows across the yard as they faced Sylar's hovering frame – towering over them, glowing with leaping, spider-legged tendrils of deadly, raw power, eyes alight. To make his point even more succinct, gathering at his waist level like a menacing, gunmetal halo floated every pillaged firearm, each one holding a dauntless steady aim. A gleaming snarl split his lips, and a chorus of lethal hammers sang as the guns readied themselves to fire.

"You had better fucking run," his voice broke with heartache, but it was all the warning he allowed before he let loose with everything he had, devil may care.

Twenty minutes later the barrage finally ended when a small tug at his ankle woke him from his lethal trance. The ground crunched as his feet touched it, pavement glittering with the casings of countless spent rounds and the manicured gardens in ruins, gouged with smoldering scorch marks. When he finally turned his hollow gaze on Claire, who was stunned into ghastly silence, he saw something else that made his skin crawl with superstitious fear.

Emma's body had mysteriously vanished, leaving behind a sticky sanguine puddle of gore.

"What on… earth…?"

"I don't know how it happened," Claire bawled, blood still smeared over the palms that had briefly nursed Emma's destroyed head, "I swear to God I just blinked and she was gone…"

Before he could conjure a coherent response, the air popped beside them and Peter reappeared.

"_Oh_, wow… they're gone… uh," he surveyed the carnal destruction, "_what did you do_…?" Sylar couldn't answer him… couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe_ for the suffocating pressure building in his chest. "You wouldn't believe how many places I had to go until I found somewhere they weren't waiting to ambush me… where's Emma?"

Ashen, Claire could only mutely weep. Sylar reeled backward a couple steps, caught between flight and responsibility, grief and guilt. He let the evidence glistening in the hateful sunshine – coating the grass and seeping into the soil – tell the tale for him. His stomach turned as he watched his only friend be struck by a truth so harsh it might as well have been a brick. He had _failed _him.

The three wheeled about as noises sprung from within the house – they still weren't quite alone.

"Quickly," Peter rasped through an aching, closing throat, "we have to go."

The battleground before them then changed, to be substituted by thin, mountain air, balmy evergreens, and a log cabin situated by a crystalline lake in the middle of what Sylar guessed were the Canadian Rockies. Peter limply released Claire's hand and wobbled faintly to where he lowered himself to a loud yet sturdy rustic porch swing. Somewhere distant, carefree geese called for each other, carrying out serene, untroubled lives as his heart just withered and died. One hand raked though black, disheveled hair while the other hid his face.

"Peter?" a voice spoke as the door opened.

Sylar pitched himself off the porch, completely displaced and oppressed by the specter of everything he'd robbed from this man, unable to even fathom a single place in the universe that could welcome the likes of him. As he watched Angela Petrelli emerge to check on her son, he knew that this place was likely the last on the list… especially after he identified it in Nathan's bothersome residual memory. The cabin belonged to the Senator… it was a place for escape for when the filthy side-effects of his profession's requisite life-style became too much for his family to handle. Not many knew about it.

And then her raptor glare speared him accusingly.

"_You_." She flapped an arm at him as if she were shooing away a stray dog that might be rabid. "How _dare_ you show your face here – you _get out_ of here! _GO!_"

Possessed by a streaking pang of cowardice, saddled by insurmountable remorse, he found that no amount of enmity he still held toward the woman could keep him from denying her wishes. Eager to let the sky swallow him whole, he took to the air and left everything behind.

**OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo**

*** _day six hundred…ish, still perpetually March, in Hell_ ***

Sylar sat at his kitchen table, his fingers steepled at his lips, watching the dismal morning creep past the window in the living room. Chilled by quiet and futility, mindlessly destitute, he sat as motionless as the dust-covered furniture for what would've felt like hours if his concept of time hadn't become as anesthetized as everything else. His fierce grasp over rational thought having long ago been relinquished, he became a droning slave to this… routine. A heartless automaton.

Well, probably not _completely_ heartless. Hence the dreams he kept having.

Echoes of mortal screams, snapping bones, and revving engines haunted him from the moment he drug his feet off the mattress to plant them on the cold floor, staring him in the face as he brushed his teeth, and were now hushed in comparison by the crispy '_pips_' his cereal made in the milk waiting unconsumed between his elbows. He could sit like this for days and the puffed bits of rice would never get soggy, regenerating as quickly as he did, just like the rest of the world. Just like _him_. This place _was_ him. He got that now.

It took everything he had to pick up the spoon and put it in his mouth. Doing so meant initiating another step in a ceaseless, monotonous, unbreakable cycle that only served to provoke the torment that continued to obliterate him from within. There had already been so much missing, having been deprived of a proper childhood… unable to recollect a life that existed before _she_ died… And there they were again. _Echoes_. What sat here now, choking down tasteless cereal, was a lost and discarded empty shell.

He did, however, find satisfaction in knowing that the barren landscape that used to mock him through the glass no longer stripped his sensibilities as it failed to hold any interest for him, having been sterilized of any sign of life ever since he threw a speaking watch out the window of an abandoned office building. There were no white piles of pigeon droppings on the sidewalk, no scurrying paws of feral cats in darkened corners, no rustling leaves of busy squirrels in swaying trees. The chatty flocks of gulls had moved off to find more pleasant shores. He no longer strived to feel rejected by them. What greeted him each morning instead was a relentless and persistently fruitless search and nothing more.

Going through the motions of rinsing out his bowl and placing it with the spoon diligently in the dishwasher, he once again summoned the courage to keep moving – keep breathing, keep thinking, keep surviving – for one more day.

He toed his sock feet into sneakers he was too lazy to lace before he shuffled dispiritedly down the stairs into the shop below, where a growing collection of broken watches sparkled on a workbench in the misty waxing light. Within each lie dormant the potential for… something. He didn't know what it was, but he could feel it – it was important. And in the place of being unable to die, it passed the time. Admittedly, however, the practice of repairing the timepieces was made more demanding with the lack of access to his innate ability. Perhaps working with them was a refreshing reminder that, while insufferably alone, he was living without the ostracizing hunger that put him there in the first place.

An hour later, neck creaking from his rigorously stooped posture, he removed his magnifying headpiece and rubbed at his eyes. As if it was hiding behind his eyelids, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, the lingering residue of his dreamscape lit up his consciousness with images he couldn't chase away, as if he had drifted off to another place in time like an out of body experience.

It was the desert – arid and gritty, making his skin feel like scales as the hot, unimpeded wind throttled his body with his clothes. The puddle at the edge of the dusty parking lot triggered an unrelated image – one of brownie batter just after the milk and eggs had been added to the dry ingredients – her blood turning the powdery dirt into lumpy paste where it leaked from her open skull, partially obscured by one arm that had awkwardly twisted over her head when her body had landed. An overpowering urge tugged at his feet, restlessly begging him to run to her – to turn her over and look at her face – but he couldn't make them budge. He couldn't understand why the demand was so insistent.

It was a far tougher thing to face the death than the dead.

What did he hope to find? Was it _hope_, in that learning their similarities – did he have her eyes? her cheekbones? her smile? her quick wit or sense of humor? her much needed self-control? – he would further discover how _dis_similar he was from his abhorrent father? Or was it that finally being able to banish the blankness of her features would grant him the ability to reclaim all that he'd lost – a coveted childhood of which he had no memory… or at least one that was viciously suppressed?

While he was unable to deny either of these things, craved them _badly_ even, he couldn't shake this feeling that there was something… else. That studying her was tantamount to peering into each and every bland and lifeless face that currently cluttered the pitted and stained expanse of his workbench. He hoped to find a _voice_. He hoped to find a _beacon_, or a compass – _something_ that would part the enshrouding fog that held him trapped and point him in the right direction, _home_. Hell, he was looking for a _home_ – someone who knew him, wanted him, someplace he could belong. He was looking for the person he could become.

He… he was looking for _himself_.

Thick grey light drowned the daydream when he opened his eyes, jolted back to reality by the realization. It wasn't enough to vow that he'd never hurt another human being again as long as he lived – it wasn't enough to plead openly to a deaf, indifferent sky that he'd learned his lesson and that he could change. Who would he change _into_? What would become of '_Sylar_'? Who was _he_?

What if he _failed_?

And, if he plainly knew what questions to ask… why did he feel so lost?

Finding no solace in the defunct yet exquisitely intricate mess of cogs and springs, he pulled on a jacket hanging patiently by the door before he stepped out for some air and another taste of claustrophobic ennui delivered by the unchanging familiarity of his surroundings. Performing a solo balancing act on the painted line that separated the vacant lanes of absent traffic, he chewed at his upper lip in deep, pensive thought.

What did he still have left to learn? What was it a voice had said to him once, months ago? Something about trying some faith? In what – _himself_? What did that mean? Was he supposed to learn to have courage? Place his trust?

Believe in himself? Was that it?

His tracks halted immediately as he watched it scurry across the pavement in front of him. It stung his eyes and watered them, leaving him at a loss for breath, disbelief having ripped it from his lungs. Secure in knowing that there was no one to witness the event, he allowed two or three tears of awe to spill over his soft cheeks as he bestowed his penitent face to the clouds…

Just as he watched them break for the first time in over a year and a half.

And a warm ray of majestic sunshine – an undeserved caress of holy grace – drifted down from the whispery heavens to kiss him on his epiphanous forehead.

**OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo OoOo**

Claire closed the book when the setting sun illuminating the westward facing window no longer provided enough light to brighten Sylar's looping scribbles. Spring was a climate shock in the north over where they'd just come from in deep Texas, so she tucked a blanket under her arm after she slipped the journal back into her pocket and stood to acknowledge the tension in the forcibly hushed room. The last thing Angela had said before retiring to the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea was, '_this place still smells like him_.' That was half an hour ago, yet still she leaned against the counter, steaming mug in hand untouched, an icy statue watching the fading sun recede from a thawing lake outside the windowpane over the sink. Unavailable to comfort her twice grieving son, Claire took the job upon herself and moved to join him by a mirthlessly crackling fire – the same one Molly eventually traded for a bed in a back room, finding the lingering death on the air a tad too stressful. Claire couldn't blame her – they'd all seen their fair share. Draping the cottony throw over Peter's shoulders, she drew her knees up to her chest as she lowered herself next to his transfixed form. She gave him a moment to react and then sighed when he didn't.

"I know you feel like you've always had to be the strong one for your family, for everything they've gone through," she told him lowly, keeping her words discreet, "even me, some. And I can't thank you enough, but… you don't have to do that this time. I'm here for _you_ now. In fact, I'm the only person who can honestly say I'll _always_ be here for you." There was a bright side to every curse.

At first the gentle weight of his shoulder against hers seemed as if it was only given to accept her sentiment and nothing more, but then it grew, and grew heavy. Feeling small and surprised, she slid an arm up his long, broad back to thread fingers through his hair when the crown of his head cuddled against her neck and he shook. She held him while he cried for as long as she could, until at least three of her limbs were numb and one of her nerves was pinched. She stamped some feeling back into her legs after she smoothed the moisture away from his face, then rose in search of a cup of tea with which to submerge his sorrow in sleepiness.

Wondering if she'd overstepped some sort of unspoken boundary, she was unable to turn Angela's frosty eyes from the glass as she trickled still-hot water over an aromatic tea bag, but then it dawned on her that the woman was actually looking at something.

_Someone_.

A tall, straight, dark lone figure that adorned the shore of the lake, stark against the deepening sky.

This house was a tomb for everyone in it. _And_ out.

Leaving Peter to nurse his mug, Claire swaddled herself in a grimy old Mexican sarape that had covered the back of a rocking chair and stepped out into the damp, cool evening. She knew he heard her coming – her shoes squeaked with every step on the dew-dotted grass – yet even as she drew up short behind him, just inside his right periphery, he made no sound. In the distance, a lonely elk lent one last call to the craggy miles for the night. Claire wished she were here under different circumstances, and briefly pondered over what it would've been like to have grown up as Nathan Petrelli's daughter.

"It wasn't your fault," she offered, breaking a useless train of thought. "Angela's just _Angela_, nobody's blaming you."

It was the wrong thing to say – she'd inadvertently implied that there was initially a question over whether or not he _was_ to blame. But why would he expect any different, given who he was? Was that what made him so sullen? He certainly made no mystery that it weighed heavily on his mind when they were trapped together in the cave. But this… this just seemed so much worse. She could hear him breathing hard over the lapping ripples that crisscrossed the surface of the water, and his fists had balled up so tightly over the sleeves of his jacket, arms pulled strenuously across his chest, that the knuckles had gone white from trauma.

"Sylar, as powerful as you are, you're not psychic – there's no possible way you could've known –"

"I should've been there," he finally muttered.

"What do you think you really could've done –"

"I betrayed him – betrayed _her_. I could've done more."

"Done _what_?"

He chewed his lip for a moment, debating what part of himself he was going to show her, if anything, battling for control over his spiraling emotions.

"She was everything that was good in this world, Claire – she never judged me. She was kind to me when I didn't deserve it. I should've been there for her, I should've – I…" He fought and he lost. "_I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE!_"

A family of ducks took to the sky in panicked flight at the sudden outburst while Sylar bent at the middle as if he'd been injured, a concealing hand clapped over his mouth as he gulped back his bitterness and shame. A confused maelstrom of loathing, humiliation, and a million other things, he took two steps toward the lake making it very clear he intended to work this out on his own – it was the only way he knew how. Three or four months ago, if Claire had found herself in this exact same position, she would've been happy to let him – in fact, she'd have had several choice words to go along with his whole diatribe. She might've even tried to push him in the water in the futile hopes he'd freeze or drown or electrocute himself or something. But now… things were just… different. Complicated.

"If that's the logic you wanna use, then fine," she argued, spitefully closing the gap he created. "It means that I could've just as easily turned around and noticed the guy on the roof and shot at him. You wanna take the blame, then great, do it – but I'm just as much to blame. _WE _weren't the ones with the guns, alright? And they were coming from _everywhere_ – you did the best that you could."

"And she's _still_ dead."

"And _you_ didn't have to do anything at _all_! And honestly? I don't think anyone really expected you to. But you _did_."

"I just wanted to do something _right_."

His dejected toe kicked a rock free from the earth that held it to where it tumbled past the muddy shore to plop into a cloud of wriggling tadpoles. Then, like a marionette on a set of strings controlled by a whim that was too impulsive to understand, her hand stretched out before her, unbidden. She held her breath and did nothing to stop it as it curiously led her to its destination – planted flat and firmly between his warm, taut shoulder blades. She could feel the ridges of his spine beneath her fingertips, felt it jerk with bewilderment at the unexpected touch. She envisioned him pulling away, or flipping around to strike her like a wild and cornered predator, but he did neither. Strangely docile, he tamely accepted her consolation before he sniffled and dragged a defeated elbow over his face.

"Don't you see," she told the back of his head, "you _did_ do something right – you _tried_. It's more than anyone can ask of you."

This stoked a fire in his damp eyes, turning him around to face her at last.

"More than… anyone…? _Claire!_ How can that possibly be true? Of _course_ I can ask for more than that – I can ask for her to still be _alive_! Don't you understand? He saved me! Regardless of everything I've done to him, he rescued me when there was _NO ONE_! I owe him my _life_! And now she's _gone_, Claire – did you _see_ him? Did you _see_ all the things I've taken away from him, just written all over his face? And this is just one more? _Seriously_, ask yourself – how much can one man stand to lose before he just… he just…"

"Snaps?" she interjected at his apparent frustration. He huffed his answer as his hands dropped, spent, back to his sides. Before her brain had a chance to filter the statement, her mouth took a risky gamble. "I don't know, why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

Speechless and derailed, his brows narrowed into something alarmingly more fierce and unpredictable for one frightening moment before his eyes slowly drifted closed and his chin fell toward his chest. They stood in uncomfortable silence while she waited for him to form a reply or fly away again, but he stuffed his cold fingers into his jacket pockets instead, tilting up to follow a chevron of geese as they painted their shapes across the rosy, dimming clouds, drawing up his shoulders to warm his neck.

"I want to kill them, Claire," his voice hung still on the moist air. "I want to kill them _all_."

And he _would_, too.

She contemplated this, and found she couldn't help herself.

"So do I," she gave him her honesty. "But right now Peter needs us. If there's something you want to do, then he could really use a friend right now. He's looking for you, whether either of you want to admit it or not."

"How can I face him?" he asked, eyes brimming with unshed contrition. "How… how can I do that?"

"The same way you've faced a lot of people today," she answered easily, feeling something sage and wise surging in the back of her throat. "With _courage_."

Drying his eyelashes with the heels of his palms, he nodded his timid acquiescence while modestly refuting her claim.

"Why are you being so nice?"

"Really… I have no idea."

He blew a surly chuckle at the uninvited return of their usual banter before he retreated toward the cabin, a convicted man facing his final mile. Upon entering, they found Peter had joined Angela in the kitchen, perhaps finding unity with each other by spying on the exchange taking place outside. The matron started indignantly, ready to protest at the thought of her worst nightmare (which was saying a lot for the dreamer) setting one damned foot inside this house, but was given pause when her only living son's hand had found her arm. Reassured, Claire released the death grip she had on the front of Sylar's shirt – the only tether that managed to keep him in the room – and shuffled off to join Molly in well-deserved exhaustion for the night.

Tomorrow's struggles were exactly that – for _tomorrow_.


	13. Teams

**********A/N:** Phew! Life is nuts! However, I'm still writing this fic! Again, sorry for the wait on this chapter - once I get through this fall I hope to have a lot more time on my hads =D So, anyhoo, this chapter introduces a new OC who is based on a real person - a good friend of mine. I hope you like her because IRL she's a real doll! Everything else is character development, plot development (dun dun dunnnn!), and some sweet sylaire!Tenderness (say it with me folks - AWWWW). On with the show!

**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**13) Teams**

A symphony of cricket song and amphibian percussion accompanied the hush of the night as Rene's softened footfalls awakened the porch steps, creaking to life with dull groans under his weight. The house was as quiet and as haunted as a graveyard, somber with a slipping sense of loss. He'd returned late after a trip to the remote mountain outpost town, carrying out business that would provide them with provisions and air travel at a moment's notice… should the need require it. After a quick, leisurely drink at a pastoral tavern with some colleagues he hadn't seen in years – other agents who had sought refuge from prying eyes across the border – he returned to the cabin to keep his wary, all-night vigil.

Part of it was that he'd lived for so long as a fearsome yet devoted sentinel – a secret weapon, or a final fail-safe mechanism – that he literally couldn't remember how to sleep at night. The other part was that his efforts weren't exactly unwarranted – they were being hunted, and he had a responsibility to the people that had fallen under his care; he had a _duty_. And then there was the fact that between the Brittons (the refugee Tawni and her young daughter), the Petrellis, Molly, Claire, and… _Sylar_, sleeping space was at a premium. So, banishing his fatigue until dawn as easily as sliding into an old routine, he settled himself to mildly rocking in the front porch swing as he withdrew a well-worn ceramic pipe and some wax paper stuffed with greasy, sepia hashish, smuggled to him from Turkey in a fragrant package of figs.

Allowing the meditative trance from the drug's effects to expand the scope of his awareness, he reached out with his mind to touch the slumbering thought patterns of every sentient brain within a steadily expanding area. With enough time and concentration, he figured he would be able to sense someone entering an invisibly drawn perimeter covering five square miles, which would certainly give him proper time to react. Releasing a serpentine coil of silvery smoke to wind its acrid way amongst the heavily hanging ceiling of briskly cooling stars, he extended his long legs to stretch the distance to the front step while he relaxed and entertained himself with the babbling chatter of thoughts, memories, and biofeedback rhythms.

All in all, the sleep taking place in the cabin – if it could be called that – was busily restless.

Angela was dreaming with a vehemence that told him he'd mostly likely hear about it in the morning, if not before. Sylar was erratically twitching in the throes of a nightmare that bore the uncomfortably raw familiarity of frequent recurrence… and lots of blood. Tawni Britton and Peter were both, regardless of their positions in separate rooms, simultaneously lying awake soaking their pillows with muffled tears of grief. The three younger girls – Molly, Claire, and Tawni's daughter Casey – lent the only source of stability to what would otherwise have been a psychically turbulent night… until Claire woke up.

There was no reason for her to rouse. It was a foregone conclusion that the girl wasn't ill or physically pained in any way. The measure of her breathing and brain wave activity had been predictably constant. There had been no loud noises. Yet, her sleep had been inexplicably interrupted as if a light switch had come on. Surprised that even a full bladder wasn't to blame, he followed her consciousness as it shuffled down the hall and into the front room, gloomily warmed by smoldering coals in the fireplace. She paused to appraise the two cocooned male bodies occupying the sofa and the recliner, having chivalrously given up any claim to a mattress to the numerically greater contingent of females. Briefly she knelt beside her uncle as he feigned repose. Pulling aside a few wayward strands of dark hair, she laid her cheek against his fevered temple and stroked a hand down his shoulder before she kissed him sweetly and stood. She spared a wistful glance to her old adversary when her toes met the doorway; his nose wrinkled and his lips worked wordlessly, trapped in a world from which she couldn't save him… and yet her unshielded thoughts gave Rene the impression that she understood the monster far better than she ever wished to publicly portray. She was keeping a secret. Leaving him to fight his own battle, she ushered herself through the door and out into the chilly, musical nighttime air.

Her pale face lifted to observe the ghostly glowing moonlit sky, she was alerted to his presence when the fiery luminescence burning at the end of his pipe elicited a soft wheezing crackle. Despite the perennial presence he'd whittled into her life – he should almost be like family – she was never truly glad to see him. Except when she _needed_ him. And most times she didn't _want_ to need him.

"Oh," she gasped, "I… I didn't see you there."

"Good evening, Little Bear." Try as she may not to smile at the begrudgingly preferred play on her father's most common term of endearment, Rene knew better. "You could say I'm keeping '_first watch_'."

"Yeah," she stammered at a nervous loss for words, toying with the frosty crunch of the grass under her slipper, "I guess someone has to."

"What was it that woke you?"

"I… I don't really know, I…"

And for a moment, her entire cognizance fell away to a flat line, leaving her brain to handle nothing more than her vital statistics like her cardiopulmonary system, her other organs' basic functions, and the limbic movements of her musculature. As if to make things more curious, Sylar also awoke – and not because his dream had reached its terminus. Like rats beckoned by the pied piper's flute, he and Peter sat bolt upright, unsheathed themselves from their bedding, and marched outside to join the younger Bennet.

Coming up beside her, they formed a perfect, motionless line eerily facing the south. Rene could feel their awareness swimming back to life to form a small, concentric pool that only included them… and something _else_. Alarmed, he stepped off the porch, banally relying on his eyes, wondering if his ability had failed him or had somehow been fooled – whatever was happening was definitely the result of an outside influence that, as of yet, had been undetected. Turning a slow circle, he scanned the roof, the shadows, the lake, the surrounding trees… even the feathery tufts of distant clouds to no avail.

"Do you feel that?"

He wheeled around at the sound of Claire's voice.

"Yes," replied Peter beside her, a monosyllabic zombie.

"We have to go.." Sylar began.

"South," Peter finished.

"We have to go south," Claire repeated.

"We have to go _back_," Sylar corrected.

"Back."

"_NO!_" came a cry from inside the house, followed by the stinging glare of lights coming on and the screech of furniture being hastily shoved aside as Angela Petrelli spooked everyone in her frantic attempt to tear her way from her bedchamber toward the front yard. "_STOP THEM!_"

But what could he do? Their minds were as slippery as quicksand. With nothing to hold onto, he was merely a spectator, watching their brainwashed bodies clasp hands as Peter nodded and they popped out of existence as freely and unbidden as a floating firefly extinguishes its lamp.

Breathless and frayed, Angela pitched forward onto the lawn, gulping her distress, her hands covering her mouth when she saw she was, "too late… _again_, too late… They're in _danger_, Rene, I _know_ this… but I couldn't see where they _went_…"

"South they said…"

"Texas," muttered a sleepy and frightened Molly from where she peered through the doorway. "They went back to Texas."

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

"Shit. No… NO, Charlie, _move_."

Jennifer Ozias swatted the inquisitively sniffing cat away from her coffee mug as she swept her other arm in a wide hurried arc, her fingertips nibbling at the edge of the roll of paper towels.

"Go on – _get_!"

She managed to chase the tenacious feline off the table, claws kicking two more files into her rapidly spreading dollop of pancake syrup. It was dog eat dog as an investigative journalist in Chicago, let alone as a woman, and to the victor went the spoils which was why she was multitasking, plowing like a snowblower through her breakfast as she sifted through her disheveled mound of evidence one more time, looking for the key that would blow this story open wide.

Scooping away the sticky substance, scrubbing with agitation at the ink it blurred, she licked her fingers and rose to deliver her plate to a sink that had been neglected for the past two days, falling to the wayside unable to compete with her relentless quest for knowledge. After rinsing her hands and pacifying the cat with a catnip toy, she loomed over her collection of papers and folders – satin robe cinched a bit tighter and curly red hair yanked into a tight topknot, hands firmly resting on her cocked hip – and went over the facts one more time.

She started with her tarnished trophies – highly coveted watermarked soft-copies procured easily yet ashamedly through one raucous night of wanton sex with the same computer nerd who'd successfully swamped the internet several years prior by co-writing the infamous Nimda virus. In using the God-given advantage she possessed over her male competitors, she'd been granted access to files on some very top secret, not-quite-medical studies conducted on an uncannily fascinating group of human beings. Something wild went down in Coyote Sands, Arizona… something very _real_.

Accompanying the sensitive documents, encapsulated safely within a small USB storage device kept inside a standing accordion binder, were countless newspaper clippings and blog or message board screenshots spanning the past few decades, all telling fantastic stories that were too crazy to be invented by a dull human imagination. There were eye-witness accounts of people walking through walls, photographs of people hovering where they shouldn't be or commanding elements without physical justification, even videos of unexplainable mental feats performed with nothing more than simple thought. There was even one record of a shapeshifter caught by a hunter's camera in the middle of reverting to his human form, still coated with the fur of a grizzly bear – to this day he was still reported to be the single greatest piece of proof suggesting the existence of Big Foot. Jennifer had no doubt, it was all true – there truly _were_ people, these '_para-humans_', with incredible abilities.

And then Claire Bennett had jumped – on live television, no less – from the top of a carnival Ferris wheel in the middle of Central Park in New York City… and had miraculously landed without so much as a scratch in front of God and the rest of the world.

Yet as the girl became more famous, and people like her began to shyly live more public lives as the world slowly tipped on its axis, Jennifer found her interests shift toward a completely different figure. There was just something about the enigmatic Gabriel Gray.

His story graduated from a modest beginning to a far more convoluted present. He had killed his own mother. It had been ruled an accident. And even though he'd never stood before a judge, he still disappeared shortly thereafter all the same… although verbal testimony placed a man identical to him at the scene of a full score of grisly murders all carried out in a neurotically repetitive fashion: the top half of the victim's skull was completely severed, exposing the brain and irreparably damaging the fragile vascular system that kept it alive. It had been said, however, that _this_ man referred to himself by a different name – called himself '_Sylar_'.

Jennifer knew something most people didn't, though, because ordinary people weren't paid to do the kind of thorough digging she did: there was a _connection_. '_Sylar_' was the name of an old company that made watches, reaching its fiscal peak around the turn of the century before brutal enterprise and punctuated ingenuity in the industry led to its eventual demise in the sixties. And Gabriel Gray was a _watchmaker _by trade.

He managed to keep a relatively low profile until sometime before Thanksgiving last fall when he was picked up and questioned by police after having been found wandering aimlessly down the side of a rural New York highway, covered in dirt, a complete amnesiac. The detective on the case hadn't been the lazy, donut-munching, good-ol-boy sort (an admirable trait he ultimately paid for with his life) – he'd begun to follow the same chain of thought Jennifer had herself, leading to Gabriel's explosive escape at which point he made no secret that he, himself, also possessed several remarkable and potentially deadly abilities. Retrospectively, he was now positively linked by NYPD and the FBI with every gruesome homicide that Jennifer had spread out before her.

But that was all before he showed up in the middle of nowhere, a virtual blank slate. For nearly six months afterward the killings just… _stopped_.

And then started again, just as abruptly, as if in commiseration with a host of unspeakable hate crimes committed against people like him – families roasted alive in their beds at night, people abducted to be recovered later floating in the river, gang-raped and beaten and left to the vultures in cow pastures, that sort of thing. Who were these '_Preservists_' and what could the ruthless yet discriminate killer possibly hope to gain from their perceived partnership? And why did he briefly stop killing in the first place? And what happened to the severed skulls? It was likely that amnesia alone was responsible for the interlude… but something still felt… _off_. And then an even stranger pattern appeared, making every attempt to disguise itself as bearing characteristics common to his original set of bad habits, minus one important detail…

The bodies were disappearing. Without a trace. No shred of evidence left behind.

Abandoning the mystery for insufficient data, Jennifer moved on to an entirely different individual – Mr. Neil Culbertson, professed spokesman of the Preservist Party. While publicly stating he wholly did _not_ condone the actions taken by '_rogue elements_' in the name of his organization, that didn't necessarily make him a nice guy… nor did she suspect he wasn't connected in some hidden way. The man was an old school oil baron, privately funding politics the same way his father had and his father before him – the clandestine way. He had been lobbying hard a set of legislation that read like a cross between gun control procedures and rights for sex offenders, setting up precedents that would categorize para-humans by terms coined '_risk factors_' and requiring those approaching a standardized benchmark to register themselves with the United States Government… essentially negating any chance for anonymity or a normal life for someone who was never anything less than a perfectly innocent human being, based on something that smacked a lot of garden variety prejudice.

What nagged at Jennifer though, like a fly buzzing in her ear, pestering incessantly, was the fact that this new batch of bodiless killings seemed to coincide with Neil's return home after a particularly long round of land negotiations with the Navajo nation in Arizona made shortly after Claire Bennet's fateful jump. Trained to seek order where others might find chaos, skilled at finding links that were as jumbled and buried as a needle in a haystack, every bone in her body told her there was something there… _right there_.

But what was it? Maybe it was time for a trip to Arizona…

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

"So… you and Bennet, huh?"

Tracy contorted her face in the tiny mirror on the back of the passenger side sun visor, making small talk while applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

"Yeah, well… we have a history," Lauren responded, not sure why she felt the need to explain herself.

"Well," the visor snapped shut, "I have nothing but respect for any woman who can live with that man."

"Here's hoping I can meet that expectation. What're we again? Tax advisors?"

"Yes – we're with Nehry & Scott. Micah hacked in and put us on the schedule."

"So why didn't he just snoop around for top secret files while he was in there? Wouldn't that've been faster?" Lauren whined, craning her neck to peer through the windshield up at the imposing tower that housed Bartlett & Wells, its face ominously shadowed while blocking the mid-morning sun. "Not to mention _safer_?"

"Typically – and I can tell you this from experience – top secret files are more secure on _paper_."

This made sense. And if she had to be honest, Lauren already knew the answer to her question. She just didn't want to go inside. Too much could go wrong. Reluctantly, though, as Tracy opened the door and swiveled her legs to tap her elegant heels on the pavement, Lauren fluffed her hair one last time, checked her teeth in the rear view mirror, then exited the vehicle briefcase in hand.

"So they _know_ we're coming then. You're absolutely _sure_."

"Relax. Just stand back and look pretty – let me do the talking if it makes you feel better."

The only thing that made her feel better was the way the hilt of her gun rubbed against her inner thigh where it hung in its private holster. It was one thing she and Noah shared… well, except he didn't hide his underneath a skirt.

She plastered a very official-looking sort of blank expression over her nerves while Tracy expertly introduced themselves to the receptionist with the confident poise and diplomacy of a politician. No sooner did the chair in the lobby scuff the backs of her knees than were they greeted by a plump, frilly woman referred to as Mrs. Dooney, the company's CFO. She met them with a small, weak handshake and the phony kind of smile one would expect to find on the face of a middle-aged, conservative, God-fearing woman in Texas, in a corporation where one '_earned_' promotion by stabbing a superior in the back. For all that she looked like a mild-mannered cat lady who baked pies as a hobby, Lauren could see a warrior's blackened heart flashing beneath the veneer. Mrs. Dooney was going to be a problem. They had to get rid of her.

"Ughh, God, wouldn't you know," she feigned a menstrual moment as the Chief Financial Officer began to lead them through a hall of cubicles with the chipper enthusiasm of someone who had much better things to do, "can you show me where I can find a restroom?" With thinly veiled impatience, Lauren was obliged, and she eventually found herself alone behind the confines of a toilet stall door. From within her purse she withdrew a bottle of chloroform cleverly disguised as an emergency bottle of contact lens solution, which she then used to saturate a wad of toilet tissue that got stuffed into the natural pocket of her cleavage. Within moments of rejoining her partner, Mrs. Dooney was dispatched and left to slump unflatteringly on the floor, propped against a file cabinet with her slip showing as her skirt tugged at her thick legs.

"Do you think that was necessary?" Tracy chided without looking up from the file she was perusing.

"Only if you wanted her reading over your shoulder," Lauren rebuked, unoffended, knowing well the other woman got catty when she was tense. She supposed she probably got the same way. "So, uh… about Noah. There bad blood there, or is it just men in general?"

"A little of both, I guess you could say. Why – you afraid I'm suddenly gonna bat for the other team and try to steal you from him?"

"Just curious."

"Curious I know something about him you _don't_?"

"Something like that, sure."

"Well, you've got nothing to worry about. My own lesbian fantasies notwithstanding, it was the things I _didn't_ know about Noah Bennet that bothered me."

"Sometimes I think I can relate."

Rolling a rusty well-used metal drawer out of its tall encasement, Lauren attempted to train her focus, aiding her associate in their search. The distraction proved too great.

"Alright, I gotta ask. You ever been with a woman?"

Tracy could only laugh at the topic, of all things, that had popped up to fill the space between them, yet the open air did a lot to keep her calm and level-headed about their task. The worst that could happen would be that she'd make a new friend out of this woman she was trying very hard not to like.

"Her name was Charlotte. We did our undergraduate together – she was going to law school next and I was a poli-sci major. We met at a protest rally – some local big business had been publicly implicated in a plot to pay its wages in borrowed money and the checks basically started bouncing. They were filing bankruptcy but nothing was going back to the workers whose lives were destroyed. Anyway, we worked together to start a foundation to pay for medical benefit costs for the children of those affected, and… well, we worked well as a team. One thing led to another and… it just kinda crossed over into dinners and long walks and eventually the bedroom. It was just something that happened one summer, it wasn't supposed to last and it didn't. She left for law school and I got my masters and moved to New York to become a… to, you know, become what I _am_. We just kinda drifted apart, the same way lots of people do. Just _did_." She stole a glance over her shoulder. "And you were just asking if I'd had _sex_ with a woman, weren't you."

"Yeah, kinda. Sorry."

"Yeah. In many ways, women are a lot like men. People are just people. What about you? You ever been with a woman?"

"Oh… well… heh…" Lauren blushed and scoffed, as if she could never have anticipated that the question wouldn't have been hurled at her in return. "You know… I was in college too. It only happened once: my roommate and I got really drunk… got a little carried away in the shower at our own damned house party… after that things got… _awkward_… Anyway, I moved out six months later, that was it. So, find anything yet?"

"Actually, I've found quite a few things I think are weird," Tracy replied.

"Like what? I've got nothing in here."

"You've got the wrong cabinet. It looks like Culbertson is storing a lot of information here – _lots_ more than their other clients – and some of it you wouldn't expect to find sitting around in a file cabinet at a marketing company." She pivoted slowly while her eyes continued to scan the documents she held in her hands, passing over a short stack to provide an example.

"What are…" Lauren began before closer inspection provided an answer. "Are these manifests? Like, _ship_ manifests?"

"Out of place, huh?" That was a ridiculous understatement. "And look how _many_."

"To the same set of coordinates. Over and over. What is this place? Where is this?"

"According to this list of assets," Tracy gave one folder a good shake, "and given the fact that the location is being repeatedly visited by _boat_ in the middle of the _open ocean_, my guess is that it's an offshore oil rig."

"But this ship… judging by its licensure… Tracy, I don't think this is a tanker… what do you think," she thrust it into the gap that separated them, "does this look like a private charter to you?"

"Having booked a half a million of them, I'd say that's an accurate assessment, yes."

"So… other than scuba diving for tourism… what does a private charter want with an oil rig?"

"Some of those rigs have personnel, don't they? Like a skeleton maintenance crew? Underwater welders or something?" Tracy searched her partner's face as if it held the answer. "And don't the manifests list supplies and what not as cargo? How long are those workers really expected to stay there?"

"I dunno, Trace… this boat's been making quite a few trips over the course of the past week alone… how much coffee can they really be drinking down there? It's weird. It doesn't add up."

"No, it doesn't. And that's not all that's in here, either. There's all these records of their movements out on the Edwards Plateau – mileage spreadsheets for the vans, gas station receipts, everything – it's all here. He's treating this company like it's one big safe. Everything seems to start right here, though…"

"Where?"

Laying one file open flat, Tracy brought her shoulder alongside Lauren's, allowing them the same view of the article that had snared her interest. She drew a quick breath, causing Lauren to flinch and string a strand of hair across her lips.

"What?"

"I know this place… the Indian reservation… Culbertson went to speak with the Navajo nation a few months back, something about rights to some land when the Arizona Oil Fields Agreement ends in 2012. Angela Petrelli talked at _length_ about this place with Nathan once…"

"About _what_? What's the significance?"

"If we had a map, I could show you the area… Lauren, really – don't tell me you've never heard of _Coyote Sands_."

Of _course_ she had. Well, then. Alright. _Now_ they were making headway.

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

The phone flipped shut with an angry, impatient clap.

"I don't understand this," Mohinder growled, "she's in _New York_, for heaven's sake – it's not like she doesn't have decent _reception_!"

"She's a teenager," was Noah's sober reply, "trust me on this one. It's before lunchtime and she's been through a lot lately. She's _still asleep_."

"No. No, it's not like her."

"Mo, I have teenagers, I –"

"I'm telling you, it's _not like her_. She's not a heavy sleeper, she'd wake up – she'd answer the phone, dammit. There's something _wrong_."

"Look – she's with Peter and Emma, and –"

"And _Sylar_..."

"– and Sylar, yes I know, but…hell…" Noah sighed with taxing resignation as he pulled off the road into a McDonalds drive thru to wait in line before ordering breakfast. "Listen, I hate saying this. I hate that my _own_ daughter is with him, let alone _yours_. I hate that I'm indebted to him for saving my life and I hate that Peter, of all people, seems to believe his brother's murderer is not the same man he used to be. I hate him for even _thinking_ about asking for absolution. I hate him for putting my family through years of torture and nightmares only to see the slate get wiped clean just like that, like nothing ever happened. But if he's a man of his word – if Peter's right about him and everything that happened between them is the truth – then… Mo, I'm sorry, but I can't think of a single person on earth that can keep both of those girls as safe as _he_ can." He lowered the window and started listing to the attendant various egg and cheese combinations while Edgar, in the passenger seat, lifted his hips to rifle through his pockets, sifting through various currencies before he came across a wadded five dollar American bill.

"So that's it…? You're just… _okay_ with it? And you don't think that's a little preposterous?"

"Any more than it's a '_little preposterous_' that she's still asleep," he took his foot off the brake to pull forward, "or that she's in the shower, or outside or eating or any number of things that would keep her from hearing a ringing cell phone?"

"She's not like Claire, you know – she can still get hurt or even _killed_…"

"Goddammit, Mo – what the hell do you _want_?" Noah brought the car to a whiplash halt before reaching the first window, rewarding him with honks and shouts from the commuters piled up behind them. "I can't bend time and space! I can't teleport you, and Edgar isn't gonna carry you to New York! So, what?"

"You'd better pull up before you get us inna fight…" Edgar soothed.

"The sooner we find Janice," Noah ignored him, "the sooner this ends for everyone, and both our little girls are safe. All I'm asking is that you give it a couple more hours before you lose your mind."

"Edgar's right," Mohinder relented after a bitter lapse, "if you don't pull up we're gonna have bigger problems."

"Fine." Noah shoved it into gear, paid for their food, then got them back on the road with hashbrowns and coffee.

"We do have a bigger problem though," Edgar injected into the quiet that had fallen like an opaque and frosty fog. "It's like a catch twenty-two. We can't end all of this and get the girls safe if we don't find Janice, and we can't find Janice without Molly – at least we can't get an _address_."

"I'll try her one more time," Mohinder moodily groused from the back seat as he stabbed the redial button with his thumb.

"How about that church," Noah suggested, "the Church of the Solid Rock – maybe we can find some answers there?"

"But how do we –"

"Pull up the Preservists' website on your phone – there should be an address on there."

Forty minutes and six McMuffins later, still unable to reach Molly, the trio found themselves at 3025 Alice Street watching the dust settle on the hood outside of a traditional white steepled church.

"Want I should check the perimeter?" Edgar offered.

"Naw, we'd just look suspicious."

"So we're just gonna go in there. Like we own the place. Start snooping around."

"If you're saying you'd prefer we have a plan, Mo, I'm one step ahead of you."

"Oh yes, how could I be so stupid, you _always_ have a plan. Care to enlighten us?"

He wasn't so sure he wanted to hear the answer.

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

Millicent was an eighty-five year old widow with a heart condition and a penchant for fierce and somewhat bigoted convictions, enjoying what was left of her lonely golden years volunteering at her Church, looking after the books and trying to keep the place spic and span as if reliving ancient memories from when her children were still small and needed her. The last thing she expected, bright and early on a serenely sunny morning so close to Easter Sunday, was for the front doors to bang open, filling the spacious corridor with terrifying echoes before two men wrestled their way out of the foyer and into the main hall. She thanked the good Lord above for whoever invented sanitary diapers, for she fully lost her frail grip on continence as a man in antiquated horn-rimmed glasses pushed a second, dark-skinned man up the aisle before him furiously, making a fearful approach toward her altar.

"WHERE IS THE PREACHER?" the man in glasses bellowed.

"I.. I.. I don't…" was all Millicent could stutter before she became dangerously light-headed and slightly nauseous. This was quickly becoming more than she could handle.

"Well, you better call him! This man, here – THIS MAN!" He gave his prisoner a frightening, neck-snapping shake. "He knocked up my _daughter_! He's gonna marry her, _whether he likes it or not_, and I want _GOD_ as a witness!"

"Yes, yes, I'll… lemme just…"

She turned suddenly and came face to face with another man – one she never saw, never heard, never suspected to ever see standing within inches _right behind_ her, like a ghost.

"Boo."

It was all it took to make her wits take leave of her body.

"Okay… that'll work, _too_," Noah told his partner.

"Never said I was no saint," Edgar answered as he caught the swooning woman, "got a lot o' bloody dances on me card, but I ain't about teh pistol whip an old lady."

"Is… she alive…?" Mohinder probed, fearing cardiac arrest.

"Yeah, just fainted. I'll lock her in the closet then let her out before we leave."

"Cool. So, check this out – she's got these books here from somewhere," Noah pointed, eyeing the ledger Millicent had been counting only moments before. "Let's look for open doors, Mo, find out where this comes from – there's bound to be _more_."

After securing the exits, they left Edgar to keep watch upstairs while they found a cramped, musty office deep in the far corner of the lower level. With the threat of spiders combined with the moldy carpet, stained from having survived far too many flood seasons, it was no wonder the old woman had decided to conduct her work upstairs.

"Okay," Mohinder ranted after closing the grimy cover on another large book, "first of all, if they have a website, then the rest of this establishment has absolutely _no excuse _for not joining the twenty-first century. Second, I've been able to find where Culbertson has granted the church a lot of monetary _gifts_, but they're all either coming from Bartlett & Wells, or his own private company – I can't find a good address."

"Same here – any tithes he's made to the church have been written from the same place. And if the Pastor has an address list for his clergy, he's not keeping it… in… hmm."

Noah let the thought dissipate into silence while he stumbled across the disheveled room in the direction of a hastily stored Christmas tree… and a large cardboard box lying next to it. Pulling open the lid, he quickly tossed aside wilted old garland and fading silver ornaments before he pulled out another box held within. A colorful picture was painted on the outside, depicting a star in the east shining down upon tranquil Bethlehem sands.

"What on earth are you…" Mohinder shut his mouth in immediate comprehension when Noah brandished, lying on top of the Christmas cards stacked inside, a folded piece of paper.

"Bingo. They gotta know where to _send_ the darn things."

"Of course! Brilliant!"

"Now let's just hope the man hasn't moved since last Christmas."

They cleared a space on the top of a decrepit and limping old desk where they flattened what turned out to be a printed spreadsheet detailing contact information for the sum whole of the church's devoted following. As Noah twisted around, however, to allow Mohinder enough room to help him read the list, his hip bumped a drawer whose hinges were just fragile enough that they –

"Shit!"

The shallow wooden compartment crashed to the ground where it splintered and scattered its contents in a broken, chaotic mess across the floor.

"Great, what're we gonna –"

"Wait, Noah," Mohinder calmed as he bent to pick up a small, black book lying innocently amongst the spread of detritus. Peeking out from behind its cover was a collection of three photographs that he held at arm's length, his face paling as his eyes soaked up the imagery they bore.

"What? What is it?" Noah asked, leaning around to catch sight of what could possibly be so disturbing about some photographs found in the basement of a _church_.

"I think I know what Culbertson and the Pastor have in common," Mohinder muttered emptily, "and I think I know how the Preservists came to be what they _are_." He relinquished the photos to Noah as he opened the journal, letting its pages slide one by one through his fingers. "Those were taken in Venezuela, at a mission camp, near a convent. I don't even need to read this to know that. Don't tell me that doesn't look familiar to you."

The pictures were nothing he was prepared to see, at least not outside of an issue of Time magazine covering some battle-scarred strife in a third-world nation. It had been a clear yet bleary day in the middle of a dry spell – the shade from the Spanish-style church on the hill did very little to parch the dry grass and arid soil lined with two rows of dead bodies. The white sheets that covered the victims' faces were blotched with something distinctly dark. _Black_. Like they were all crying tears of ink.

"_Maya_. _Maya_ did this," Noah surmised. "Culbertson found his collaborator in Brother Jacob and his church because…"

"Because his mission ran into _Maya_."

"Vengeance is an unrelenting motivator, Mo. There's a lot of loss, here, that we're up against."

"And now there's loss on either side."

"Yeah… but now we've also got Culbertson's _home address_. Let's go check it out and see if we can't prevent a few more."

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

Sylar coughed against a throaty itch when his lungs, having acclimated to an alpine climate, sucked in a huge gulp of painfully contrasting, warm, moist gulf sea breeze.

"Ughh… Oh… _God_… What the hell…? Weren't we just…?"

"Where are we? What happened?" Claire appeared to be equally disoriented.

"It looks like I've teleported us," Peter murmured, "although I have no idea why… or _where_..."

The ground lurched suddenly under Sylar's feet and pitched him forward to topple headlong against a railing – if he'd been any taller he would likely have gone over. His panicked fingers clamped tightly to the metal pipe, smearing them with rust and flaking paint, as he tried to reign back his center of gravity. Sometimes he forgot he could fly. Behind him he heard Peter hit the deck shortly before Claire's diminutive weight smacked against the small of his back… elbows and forehead first.

"OW! What're you –"

"Oh – oh my god!"

Yawning away beneath them a good story or two roiled the grey, foaming crests of churning waves. They were –

"We're on a –"

"We're on a boat," a fourth voice very casually stated the obvious. Well, what had _become_ obvious. "A very _big_ boat."

Sylar would have known that voice even as a lone grain of sand on a beach. It was the same voice that had been stamped like a brand across every illusion that fooled him into thinking he could become a better man – imprinted for all eternity like a brightly gleaming scar against the deepest recesses of his memory, as if it were his own name. His _real_ name. Sylar didn't feel the need to vocalize the recognition, it just _was_. Peter, however, operated differently.

"Parkman?" Coming to his senses as he got his legs back under him, he remembered what part the telepath had to play in their saga, and regardless of the help the man had requested, both he and Sylar knew they were facing a desperate man. He was as unpredictable as the sharks that circled the fathoms below. Adding a little telekinesis to bolster his strength, Sylar spun his body, making peace with the friend he'd hurt by pushing Claire behind him, shielding her with his own tall frame despite her huffed protests.

"Seriously, why are you so stu–"

"What do you want, Matt?" Peter asked, instinctively coiling a defensive bend in his knees. "What are you doing here?"

"The same as you," he droned mournfully. "Grieving a family that by now I've lost, getting shipped out to my fate, waiting to see how bad it'll hurt, as if anything could hurt _worse_."

"How do we know you're –"

"He's telling the truth, Peter," Sylar verified. It ached within him as surely as he ached with longing for the love of mother he couldn't remember.

"He could be convincing you otherwise."

Sylar never took his eyes from the man – the same one responsible for the infinitely profound transformation that took place inside his own naked soul – as he echoed the words he knew he'd never hear no matter how frenetically they buzzed unspoken like a swarm of enraged hornets.

"I know… but I believe him."

Something flitted across Parkman's captured, wary gaze, something like acceptance or regret – neither were things to which he'd readily admit.

"Look," Matt confessed, "I know I've done some things… and I know you know _why_, but none of it matters anymore… it's too late. I've, uh, apparently worn out my _usefulness_."

"So what are we all doing here?" Claire stepped out from behind the wall of Sylar, annoyed, "and what the heck are _they_ doing here too?" She jerked her chin over her shoulder to indicate a milling throng of people amassing on the pier, filing slowly like mindless cattle up a narrow gangplank to board the ship with nothing more on them than the clothes they wore. "If you know something, now would be a good time to tell us."

"I wish I did. For all I know, this is a mass execution, sending us all out into the sea where we'll sink and drown if we don't become shark food first."

"So… why isn't anybody leaving? Or fighting?"

"Why didn't _we_ fight?" Peter finished her thoughts.

Having always, for as long as he could remember, been able to comprehend things that beguiled others, Sylar had a persistent and nagging inkling.

"We were _compelled_ to come here. By some… higher power. And now they don't need Matt anymore."

"Well, we can't just _stay_ here," Peter began in true '_Peter_' form, the unremitting hero, "we have to get _out_ of here, and get these people off this ship! Are you gonna help us, Matt? Or will you _stop_ us?"

"Will _he_ help us?" Sylar felt the temperature drop when their eyes landed on him. "Because I want this to end as badly as you do – I've got a wife and son to bury. But as far as _he's_ concerned, there's a whole smorgasbord down there, and _we're_ just setting the wolf amongst the sheep." The hand he kept stable on the railing pitted dents into its length with the considerable effort it took to suppress the sharp bite of indignance.

"You've seen inside my head, you _know_ I –"

"Sylar…"

"– you just don't want to _admit_ it…"

"Buddy…"

"_Asshole_…"

The blood pressure flushing his face drained at the slightest touch of cool, pink fingertips against the underside of his arm. He was always startled into repugnant cowardice by her undeserved and unforeseen touch – so soft and timid, and given so freely without reservation… so docile. She could tame him with those fingers, the ones that peeled back another layer on the very same buried and throbbing desire for basic human contact that set him on his quest in the first place. He forgot what he was upset about.

"Right now he's the least of your worries," Peter answered. "You don't want to trust him, then fine – trust _me_. But I'm not gonna just sit here and let myself set sail off into some… watery _grave_. You coming?"

"Yeah… yeah, I'm coming. Let's go. But not _that_ way. Come with me."

Sylar watched them start to parade away, leaving the bow of the ship, but found himself speared to the spot by an idea that was so insidious it immobilized him with shock. Like a puppy halted at the end of a leash, Claire paused when she realized he wasn't following and turned to assess him, her face screwed up in a complex concoction of concern and criticism.

"Hey…" While she'd gotten the wrong impression, it wasn't one he minded. "Don't let him get to you, he doesn't –"

"He was in the house."

"…what?"

"He was in the _house_. The _Petrelli_ house. When we were attacked. When Emma was…" he chewed his lip while the suspicion that possessed him raced a streaking trail through his brain and stoked a fire in his hammering heart. "Claire, Matt Parkman was in that house. And now we're all here…" His eyes tunneled into hers. "As if we were… _drawn_ to be here."

"You... you think... you think he made _us_ think…" Her dumbstruck jaw fell open. "Oh. My. God. We are such _idiots_!"

She whipped an about face and charged half a step into what would have been a full steam gallop if she hadn't been frozen in place. He didn't have long – Matt and Peter would come back soon to see where they'd gone.

"What the hell, let me go!"

"Claire, you can't!"

"Can't what? Can't tell him? Sylar! If Emma's _alive_, don't you think Peter would want to know?"

"Shhh be quiet!"

"_You_ shh! Why are you such a –"

"What if I'm _wrong_, Claire? What if I'm _wrong_? What happens _then_?" Understanding, she stopped struggling and he lamented the way her eyes dulled when the hope faded from them. "I can't, Claire… he was there for me, even when he hated me, and I… I can't see him go through this again. You can't tell him. Promise me."

"Alright," she acquiesced, "alright, I won't. But we gotta find out, okay? Please? I mean, we have to, right? If she's the reason why everyone keeps getting on this, this, this… Cruise of _Doom_, then we have to stop her, right? Or stop whoever's making her do this?"

"Yeah, yeah we do."

"Okay, then let's go catch up!"

She bolted a second time… but after a few paces still found herself alone. Fearing the worst, paranoid that she'd placed her faith in a second chance that was nothing more than a failure or, worse, a _trick_, she slowly wheeled around to size him up with a scornful glare of mistrust.

"So… what? What _now_?"

He couldn't answer her. He couldn't put it to words. Peter had known it once, long ago… when he'd come back from the future wielding the same malignant ability that had plagued Sylar for so many… for longer than he could remember, literally. It took his sorrow and his loneliness and disfigured it into bloodlust. It encouraged his anger to fuel its monstrous appetite. It took his wishes and his secrets and his intentions and squashed them like insignificant ants. It was insatiable, and it never, _ever_, went away. Matt Parkman was right. He was _hungry_.

He couldn't possibly face those people. He was an accident waiting to happen. How could he tell her that?

"Here."

Her voice brought him to attention – he'd been watching the mob amble up the narrow passage, spiraling away from reality, listening with predatory acuity to the ticking, sparking neurons spelling out mysteries as varied as the stars in the sky… gifts that were wrapped in fleshy little trimmings…

"Take my hand."

He was helpless to deny her, trapped by his own psychosis. If she could offer him a way out, he was a fool not to take it. The instant their palms flattened together, he was assaulted by a storm of images and emotions, swelling from within her to deluge his stolen ability in a torrent that drowned everything else. He was mollified by her stern sympathy, her irritable pity, her lingering tremors of fear, an uneasy dose of doubt she wished that she could quench, and an incomprehensible willingness to help an old enemy if it would provide her some much needed _closure_. It was the first time his head had known _peace_ since it had been… alone.

"You gonna live?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

He never _wanted_ to be sure.

"Yeah."

"Good, cause we gotta go now – can you do that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

And so, following her lead, swimming in a tempestuous sea of reticence and encompassing deprivation, he set off in search of what it was like to be part of a _team_.

**A/N #2: So, when Matt Parkman said, "we're on a boat," did anyone else picture them ALL bursting into a cute little sailor dance before breaking into a rousing round of, "we're on a mother f-ing boat!"? Just me?**


	14. Life Raft

**********A/N:** WHEEEE! I am living the life of a wife, mother, full-time IT professional with a lot of training on the side, a fan-fic writer, AND a professional musician with 2 different gigs WHEEEE! And on top of that, I try to sneak in a few hours at the gym *pant pant pant*... So.. this chapter is WAY overdue. However, now that one music gig is actually in the performance part of its course instead of in the near constant practice part I'm starting to finally see a little more me-time clearing up YAY! So, I was able to crank out the rest of this chapter in a little over a week =D That's much more like it! Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy. It's got a couple Sylaire moments near the end and what I think, personally, might be my new favorite journal entry (the one with the talking watch was my favorite before that), but Sylaire action is gonna start crankin' up a bit starting with next chapter. His true colors are gonna have a chance to shine =D I hope the wait hasn't dulled you!  


**********I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**14) Life Raft**

Noah Bennett nearly leaped out of his skin. This was more annoying than when his unsolicited _additional_ partner answered the same screeching cell phone in the middle of a gun fight.

"Oh thank God it's finally her."

"Mo, this is _surveillance_, there's a real need here for –"

"Hello? Molly? Yes, I know, it's good to hear your voice too, pumpkin. You're okay?"

"Buddy, you're gonna have to put that thing down, you're drawing –"

"What do you mean you had to leave? Where are you now?" Edgar could only shrug helplessly. "Molly, how can you not know? Find _yourself_! Are you still with the Petrellis? Yes, but… I know, yes, but… Honey, who's there now?"

"He gives himself super-human strength and suddenly he's gotta do _everything_ by brute force," Noah muttered under his breath as he scanned the bi-colored veridian and terracotta expanse of the Culbertson estate from his vantage point on a wooded crest overlooking the property. No matter how flat he crushed himself down amongst the rotting leaves and subtropical ferns sheltered between aging hardwood trunks, there was _no way_ someone keeping watch was going to miss that squawking electronic version of '_Party in the USA_'.

"What do you mean '_they're gone_'? Where did they go?"

This managed to briefly snare his interest, but wasn't successful in dragging his watchful eyes from a growing commotion brewing near the front of the house. The ornately paned and brilliantly lacquered door opened to admit the passage of –

"Oh shit…"

A trio of lean, muscular Dobermans emerged to defend their territory, sampling the breeze with searching noses, listening with attentive cropped ears, dutifully performing the tasks to which they'd eagerly been set. Noah ripped the phone out of Mohinder's hands and smashed shut it into the soil.

"Wha–"

"_Quiet._"

It was too late, the gig was up. Humans were easy to fool, so head-dumb to make use for, ironically, larger brains. Canines, on the other hand, were notoriously tricky. But so was Noah Bennett. The sleek Anubis heads turned toward the muffled exchange before their clawed paws tore through the lawn, charging up the crest to confront any intruders who dared set foot on _their_ land.

"Noah… _Noah_!" Mohinder stumbled from his belly to his knees to his butt, flailing against gravity in alarm. Edgar, who could've escaped easily, stood his ground, too loyal to abandon his colleagues. Noah, however, rose calmly and held his stance in a manner that would have seemed suicidally nuts to the average bystander. He took a challenging step forward as the dogs made their raucous snarling approach, and pulled a discreet canister from an inside jacket pocket, jutting it forward and releasing a cloud of aerosol mist directly into the snapping jaws of the vicious black predators. One by one they whined and yelped, smearing their foaming muzzles against the insides of their forelegs as they all eventually succumbed to the chemical, toppling over to land in a bed of loamy forest debris sound asleep.

"You don't get where I am without learning how to deal with _dogs_," Noah smirked to his petulant Indian friend.

"That's _great_," he argued, "now if only I could've asked Molly if Janice was here for sure! Then we wouldn't have to take our chances, snooping around for nothing!"

"I dunno," Edgar answered, "the fact that he has dogs suggests that 'e's got a vested interest in protectin' _something_."

"But that could be anything! Jewels, art, cars… hell, commemorative _plates_ for all we know!"

"They're not protecting a collection," Noah interrupted, kneeling next to one of the lightly snoring animals. "Collections take time to build. If it's impressive enough to necessitate guard dogs, then one could expect it to be guarded by generations of them. Look at their collars."

"It's true," Edgar agreed, stooping to have a closer look, "all of their I.D. tags are stamped for the same date, just a few weeks ago."

"That doesn't mean anything," Mohinder countered. "That could just be the date they were last immunized, or when the tags were renewed… although I do have to concede that is _mildly_ coincidental."

"The tags weren't what I was looking at," Noah stated. "Look at the _collars_. They're brand new. No, this guy _recently_ got something worth looking after, and _then_ he got his dogs. She's here, guys, _and_ the –"

The sentence was snuffed out when the door glinted in the midday sunshine again, this time facilitating the exit of two flannel-clad rednecks, joined by a tall, slender man in a preacher's habit, and behind him a rotund, middle-aged gentleman in garishly expensive crocodile boots. They conversed for a short time, although the breeze carried their words away toward the gulf to be heard only by distant waves, and they surveyed the perimeter with weak salutes shielding their eyes from the sun's cheery glare. The one that was obviously Culbertson cupped his hands to his mouth and began calling names, presumably those belonging to the dogs. Beside him, he felt Edgar chuckle.

"Yeah, these are _definitely_ new… he didn't even get that one's name right."

The two hired hands broke away from the group in separate directions, following what was sure to be a planned search pattern, while the man Noah guessed to be Brother Jacob retired to the house. Culbertson, however, forged his own path to a distant building on the edge of the grounds.

"Izzat legit? Or a red herring?" Edgar asked.

"Hmm… I dunno."

"What are you talking about?" Mohinder hissed.

"His movement," Noah answered. "His dogs took off after something and they're not returning. He knows something's up. What's left to be determined is if he's stupid enough to check on what he's hiding while he's pretending he's not being watched, or if he _knows_ he's being watched and he's trying to throw us off the tr– "

"Neil! Do you want mustard on your sandwich? Rosa wants to know!"

Two blonde heads leaned out of the house unexpectedly – Culbertson whipped around and scowled at the blunderous sight of his wife, peeking out of the entryway with the worst possible thing squirming against her firm but gentle grasp, reaching over her shoulder to touch what was likely a fascinating, prismatic array of light reflecting in the shine of the glass on the door.

A little baby boy.

"Matty…" Mohinder nearly choked.

"Hold tight, Mo…"

"They're here… they're _both_ here…"

"Janice _isn't_ in that house – just be still a minute…"

"But how do you…" Culbertson scooted as quickly as his heavy paunch and stiff knees would carry him back toward the house to shoo the woman out of plain sight. "_How do you know?_"

"Because," Noah ascertained, as if anyone could doubt that he knew _everything_, "if it were _me_, and I wanted to keep all of _my_ cards under the table, I wouldn't have them all in my _hand_. The best way to assure their security is to keep them _separate_."

"So she's in the shed then," Edgar surmised.

"And he really is that stupid, yes."

"So what do we do?"

"We split up… and try to make the best use of the abilities we have. Edgar – are you fast enough to make it to that shed without being seen?"

The look Noah received was surreptitious at best.

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

Seagulls. Stirred from the sensationless fog of murky slumber by the lull of their rhythmic chatter, Janice lazily sifted through her muddled memory, trying to recall what beach she'd been visiting when the cozy Pacific sun had delivered her into complacent surfside naptime. The crook of her left arm began to tingle and briefly she worried about the duration of her sunscreen's effectiveness – as someone of fair-skinned, European descent, serious sunburn was a real concern.

"Ma-"

What should have been a simple inquiry was, in actuality, a raw, dry croak as if she hadn't used her voice in a year or more. The twinge in her arm started to intensify and the distant avian vocalizations changed pitch... grew closer... took on a different quality…

She became alarmed. Something was wrong. And she still couldn't remember going to the beach. Truthfully, she couldn't remember anything at _all_.

"Ma-Matt...?"

"Shhh," she was told as a mild pressure smoothed over her shoulders in a placid attempt to restrain her. "Just a couple more lines 'ere..."

The thickly accented hush of his voice stunned her electrically and her eyes shot open – events like a frenzied explosion of popcorn began bursting across her recollection. There… there _had_ been men with heavy accents… southern, _Texan_ maybe… they… they'd taken…

_Matty!_

Animal instinct and maternal fury flooding her dormant muscles, she writhed and clawed for escape only to find her body was frustratingly clamped into place, and there was suddenly a tugging sting across multiple points on her forehead and temples. A hand, faster than light, stifled the reflexive scream that was sure to follow her futile struggles.

"Shh shh shh – be still, it's _okay_. I'll have y'out in a jiff, jus' got a couple more wires, but then we gotta be _quick_, alright? Y'think you can run?"

Of _course_ she could run. And she could punch and bite and kick too, maybe even _kill_ – whatever it would take to get her son back in her arms. But… _this_ accent… it was _different_. It wasn't American at _all_. She tilted her head, angering beleaguered vertebrae, to catch sight of her strange companion. He was a rough, sandy-colored man with a long face and shady eyes, and there was an intimidating strength that was cabled in his sinewy arms as he worked to free her from her bonds. Her gut insisted that she not trust this man, but her brain strove for more information. He did, after all, appear to be her _rescuer_.

"Who… who are you…?" she managed through a gravelly larynx.

"M'name's Edgar," he confessed as he paused to appraise her with a look that was supposed to be reassuring… and, oddly, was. His eyes were kinder than she'd anticipated. "I'm with Noah Bennet – we're gonna get you an' yer boy out of here, but we 'ave to be very careful."

Her grinding shoulder blades flattened against the surface to which she'd been strapped at the mention of Bennet's name – regardless of the fact that the last conversation that had taken place between the man and her husband had left Matt somewhat upset, she clung to his familiarity like a life raft, relaxing enough to stave off her rising panic but not enough to become lethargic by her previous exertions. It was then that she took in her surroundings: dim, antiseptically sterile despite a slight odor of must or grease, not quite a hospital room yet not quite a serial killer's basement either. And she knew – as a district attorney, she'd managed to catalog a few characteristics about homicidal whack jobs in her time. She had no doubt she'd been abducted by someone meticulous, goal driven, and in the possession of staggering resources – perhaps someone wealthy or influential. Someone who wanted a very big _something_. Over the sound of her slowing breath, however, was still a shrill pinging that moments ago she'd been convinced was nothing more than benign coastal birdsong.

"What _is_ that?" she asked as she twisted her chin, eyes roving the room and its hateful contents in search of a source.

"Life signs," Edgar replied. "They're monitoring you for any change in status."

"So what's gonna happen when –"

Something adhesive plucked away a few strands of her hair as it separated from its spot, anchored aside her left eye where her black tresses framed her face, and the musical cadence erupted into blaring, menacing screeching.

"We run, that's what!" Edgar shouted as he yanked at the bands of leather encircling her. "Here, take my hand, let's go!"

The climb out of her secret prison was surreal. Instead of emerging into the nightmarish, labyrinthine hallways of a medical facility, or a dingy back alley of some cross-town city street, or any number of other atrocious yet expected images her racing imagination fed her, she ended up taking her first breath of fresh air underneath the mammoth ass end of a… a _tractor_…?

"What on –"

"Stay put."

In a blur of motion, Edgar instantaneously crossed the expanse of the shadowy metal garage that currently separated them from her captors to bend his ear close to the only point of entrance or escape – a large sliding barn door.

"Culbertson's come back outside," the name, even falling from the lips of an ally, blanched her and made her feel sick, "he's signalin' his men with a radio. I can buy us some time, but you're gonna need a good hidin' place… which means you'll need to trust me."

"Wha…?"

"Quick, in here."

"Uhhhh…"

She reminded herself Edgar probably meant well, but he was, nonetheless, a stranger. Naturally, therefore, she felt she was justified in feeling more than just a bit reticent about following this new development in what she could only assume wasn't much of a cohesive plan. After all, he'd just indicated, having asked her to trust him, to curl her newly liberated body into the trunk of a dusty, stinky, dark green 1971 Dodge Challenger hidden under a spider-infested tarp where she'd just… _wait_. _Right_.

"Look, we're out of time," he said, unsheathing from beneath his jacket a pair of bushman knives large enough to give a charging wild boar a moment's pause. If he was trying to make friends, he wasn't doing a very good job, however he did have a talent for accentuating his point.

"Oh… oh my god…" Janice stammered, cowering defenselessly back toward the covered vehicle. "I won't… don't…"

"What… these? Oh! Oh no! No, I'm not gonna – it's okay, I'm just –"

"I'm getting in, I'm getting in, just… please, don't…"

"It's not what you think…"

Any further explanation was drowned beneath the steel hulk of the trunk lid and the tears of fright that bubbled in the confined space. They didn't have far to fall though – less than two minutes later the rigid ceiling over her head was ripped open and Edgar's stubbled face popped back into view. He was just... letting her out?

"Come quick!"

Just as she was stabilizing herself on the bumper having gotten her feet back on solid ground, she noticed a trail of blood trickling a tiny rivulet past her toes. She didn't need to look to know it was coming from Edgar's blades.

"They're not dead."

"Who?" she feigned ignorance as she refused the hand he offered her.

"The help Culbertson was calling. They, uh... they won't be coming though. That don't mean _he_ won't_._"

She could almost hear the crunch of the man's shiny, reptilian boots on the lawn.

"So... if he's out _there_, how are _we_ gonna get out?"

An unsettling grin of wicked delight split the man's face as his eyes swiveled to land upon the obvious answer to her question.

"Mebbe let's jus' see if that tractor works..."

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

Brother Jacob muttered his plea for forgiveness discreetly under his breath – his own personal misgivings were between him and his Lord, and were not for public scrutiny. He prayed his divine master would be able to overlook his current circumstances to see, underneath, the depth of the work he was doing in His holy name. But, in all honesty, he held the bond between husband and wife, not to mention parent and child, very close and did not in any way condone the actions being taken in this household.

That didn't mean he would do anything to prevent it, however. There were bigger things at stake.

Sally was a gracious enough woman to be sure her family and her guests had an ample lunch – would never turn away a hungry mouth – and had quickly set her maid, Rosa, to the task. There were few things the woman enjoyed more than a busy household, excluding the cherubic child she bounced happily on her shoulder.

A child that _wasn't_ hers.

She was blissfully unaware of the dangerous truth that was happening beneath her nose in her own home. Jacob didn't like it, but he would fight to keep it that way, which was why his fingers clenched beneath the cuff of his shirt and the blood drained from his face when Neil's beeper suddenly went off just as his lips – already coated with nervous sweat at the mysterious disappearance of his dogs – closed around the moist edge of his turkey on rye. Something was happening – something _bad_ – and everyone was just trying to keep… _casual_.

Jacob disguised his grimace as he bowed his head to say grace when Neil lied and told his wife he was stepping out to take an urgent '_phone call_'. Cautious not to arouse any suspicion, Jacob stayed where he was, gratefully tucking into his sandwich as he prepared himself to conduct some heavy damage control in the case that Sally were to learn that the real mother of her new foster child was actually her husband's kidnapped victim being held unconscious and against her will in a secret room under the tractor shed outside.

Compared to what happened next, his preparations were found sorely lacking.

The clamorous crash of exploding metal was punctuated by the clatter of a shattering lemonade glass against the kitchen linoleum – Rosa had dropped it to clap her hand over her heart in fright. There was no sense in pretending he wasn't shocked – anyone who'd heard what they'd just heard would be on their feet, so that's what he did.

"Brother," Sally, whispered, both arms clutching the baby to her chest, perhaps not quite as oblivious to the palpable tension that had managed to pervade the general atmosphere after all, "what… what was _that_?"

"Sounded like it came from the shed… you ladies stay put," Rosa was already bent to collect shards of glass, "I'll go check on –"

All three visibly jumped when the entire glass patio door leading to the deck outside was unceremoniously torn from its hinges to go sailing across the back yard. A man wearing iconic horn-rimmed glasses stomped through the opening and jammed a terrifying weapon into Jacob's face before he could finish his sentence.

"You're not going _anywhere_."

"Rosa.. _run_…"

Oh, Sally… There was no way the man didn't hear her. He whipped around, and as if the barrel of his gun was a freeze ray, the two women were instantly paralyzed.

"Rosa, don't you move, you got it? _Nobody_ move."

A second man – an Indian man – carrying a smaller yet no less formidable firearm followed his partner inside.

"Mo," Mr. Glasses called over his shoulder, "can you secure the room?"

"Sure. In the kitchen, please," Mo ordered Jacob, the '_please_' a needless formality – the threat of a bleeding gunshot wound was really all he needed. Jacob raised his hands obediently and joined the women in the corner where the marble countertop and walnut cabinets met the expensive stainless steel sink. In a showman-like feat of strength worthy of a sideshow act, Mo lifted, with one hand, the heavy, hand-carved solid oak dining room table and tipped it on its oblong rim, allowing one side to rest on the ground while the other leaned against the top of the archway separating the dining room from the rest of the house – it was the best cover they were going to get. Jacob got the impression this wasn't going to take long.

"Ma'am," Mr. Glasses continued, "I'm gonna need you to give me that baby."

In a way, Jacob was almost relieved.

"I… I won't. I _won't_ let you kidnap him," Sally blathered stupidly.

"I don't think you understand, ma'am. You're gonna give me that baby, or I'm gonna shoot Rosa." Now the woman was just scared beyond all comprehension, dissolving into blubbering inaction. Rosa, too, began to cry, stuttering final supplications in rapid Spanish as she drug a cross over her heart.

"Ma'am," Mo interjected, "you'd be wise to just do what he says. I don't know what your husband told you about that child, but he's _lying_ to you."

"Neil would _never_ – "

"Do you really think that baby just showed up on your doorstep? You don't think there's someone out there looking for him?"

"Ma'am," the dreaded Mr. Glasses spoke again. Jacob briefly wondered how many more words they were going to get from him. "That baby has a momma that really wants him back," he pulled the slide, popping a live round into the chamber, causing Rosa to wail a watery sob for mercy, "I aim to do whatever it takes to make that happen."

"Please, ma'am, just give him the baby," Mo begged, his tone sinking a stone in the pit of Jacob's stomach as it told him exactly what he didn't want to hear – this man _would_ pull the trigger.

"Give him the baby," Jacob urged her, doing his best to avoid innocent bloodshed.

"SALLY!" Neil's voice boomed from the other end of the house. "WHERE'S MY GUN! JACOB, CALL THE BOYS! CALL 'EM QUICK!"

"Do it _now_, Sally…"

"But how do I know –"

"You don't! _Just do it!_"

"_Matty!_"

The scene was interrupted when a pale, dark-haired woman scrambled past the mangled screen door and the broken dishes and sandwich fixings littering the carpet to tear a determined path toward the infant, and for a moment Jacob thought he could hear the tractor's feeble engine put-putting outside on the lawn. Sally could do nothing as the child wriggled against her to fling his chubby, balled fists toward his real mother. Limply, she let him crawl out of her arms, allowing the newcomer to scoop him up and ravage him with soaking wet kisses.

"JACOB!"

"Time to go," Mr. Glasses stirred, lining his foreboding sights between Jacob's eyes instead, "and _you're_ coming with us."

Of course he was.

"Noah…" Mo breathed – clearly this was an unforeseen turn of events, something that hadn't been discussed.

"Not now, Mo, we gotta move."

"But –"

"_Move!_"

Jacob eagerly obliged him, this devilish man ironically named '_Noah_', for he knew there was no way he was going to win. They weren't in neutral territory; they were hip-deep in Preservist country and Neil Culbertson had many strings to pull – and a _telephone_. Jacob knew it took no more than six minutes for the county Sheriff's department to respond when Neil called, and on foot they'd never make it off the property in time.

Which was why he was so dismayed to discover that the rumbling tempo of firing pistons he'd heard just seconds before was actually that belonging to the dark green muscle car parked and poised with every intention of spiriting them away at an unfortunate, and grossly gratuitous, rate of speed.

Dukes of Hazzard style.

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

*** _Day… uh… no freakin' clue… trapped without eidetic memory. In Hell_ ***

He wanted his _body back_.

He was learning that the natural course of crisis was not a linear one – the shifts of his moods came in waves…or more accurately _tides_, pooling its dismal, dreary chill around him with its vacuum weight, drowning everything it could reach and only receding when some mystifying celestial force commanded it.

The day had begun as routinely as normal. Timidly optimistic sunshine dragged him out of bed and warmed his back as he stumbled sleepily to the bathroom, and guided his footsteps as it peeked through the upstairs windows while he navigated his way down the stairs. He was at the end of a two month Lucky Charms kick – once the box was finished he'd make the switch to Cinnamon Life. Having saved the marshmallows for last, he spooned them out of the milk and munched on the sugary, malleable lumps as he rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher along with the cookware from the previous evening. He'd enjoyed poached salmon… although he couldn't imagine where it must've come from. And '_enjoy_' was really such a strong word, given the situation.

He supposed the manic swing in his attitude could've been attributed to the nagging threat of the mundane that was as constant as the gray sea on the misty horizon. Five steps from the bed to the toilet. Eighteen minutes spent on hygiene. Fourteen steps to the stair case. Nine stairs to the landing – turn right – three more stairs then eight steps into the kitchen. This was the fourth two-month stretch eating the same cereal for breakfast.

Straining against an encroaching lethargy, he marched the three steps from the countertop to the calendar by the door to mark off another day. By his best reckoning (which, sadly, wasn't as accurate as he would've liked) he'd successfully managed to make it through his nine hundred and eighty-fourth day without killing anyone. Give or take a few days, it was hard to tell. He squared his shoulders and paused, giving the black 'X', etched in permanent sharpie ink, his undivided attention as if he were pledging allegiance to the flag, and he sighed a modest breath of satisfaction. When he got to one thousand he was going to bake a cake. Maybe chocolate, although he'd given lemon some thought. It was _good_ to have goals.

Four more stairs brought him down into the shop area at 7:23am – two minutes shy of yesterday's time, perhaps spent searching for clean towels before showering. He did what he did every day – he worked on watches for exactly four hours, no more, no less. He no longer devoted himself to the artifacts out of some unfulfilled hope he'd be rewarded with glimpses or hallucinations or voices. He certainly didn't manipulate their jigsaw inner workings out of some heartsick, nostalgic urge to feel his detestable abilities once more. In fact, the habit was born from the exact opposite – a daily affirmation of what it felt like to no longer be puppeteered by the demon dwelling within him. The hellish quiet and diabolical solitude may have been torturous to the point of madness… but no one died yesterday. Or the day before. Or nine hundred and eighty-two days before that. In this place where all he had left was his routine or his tears, he took his solace where he could.

Against his wishes, though, as fickle and unpredictable as an invisibly tugging riptide, his emotions began to take a turn for the morose just before the larger hand of the silver ladies' Gucci struck 11:23am, square on the nose. Time was literally staring him in the face – cruel, mocking, endless, monotonous, bottomless, fathomless _time_. Like a shiny, ticking abyss. Like _drowning_.

Curious to see what effect fresh air would have, he decided lunch would take place on the beach, so he packed up his pastrami on wheat with horseradish and smoked gouda, grabbed a notepad and pencil along with a bottle of water, then hopped in the Charger for the seashore.

He had stopped keeping a journal when he was seventeen, not because he felt foolish, but because the secrets concealed tenderly within were truths he would rather not have faced, choosing to let them go ignored instead, manifesting in... well, it didn't do any good to dwell on it any more than he had. He'd begun the practice several years earlier when his science teacher had grown concerned by what she'd perceived to be his abnormally dispassionate nature when it came to the dissection of animals. And perhaps his fascination with dismembering slimy viscera was a little more pronounced than what one would consider a healthy interest for a child. Then there was the fact that he was small, pale, unnervingly quiet, and... _weird_. Even though no one talked about it, the school counselor became involved and encouraged Virginia to think about seeking psychiatric help for him, suspecting something was amiss – that he was '_troubled_' – but doing so would require that his foster mother confess to the crimes that landed him in her possession... and would also require that she admit something was wrong with him in the first place. That he _wasn't_ perfect. That he _wasn't_ her angel. He remembered the day clearly: the woman kept him after school for ten short minutes, only long enough to run a soft caress over the apple of his cheek and to tell him that it wasn't fair, that everyone should have someone they could talk to... and then she handed him the notepad. Told him it would make him feel better. Hoped that one day he would give it to her. _Trust_ her. He didn't understand at the time, yet now the thing rolled a pencil across its face in the passenger seat, smiling blue lines at him like his only friend. So, butt growing numb on the sandy hump of rock he'd made his perch, he resurrected his only attempt at therapy once he'd tossed his bread crusts out for gulls that would never come back.

The tenuous sunshine faded behind a creeping roll of clouds.

His first step was to identify what he was feeling, then acknowledge those feelings and give them their due process.

One: _anger_. He was angry at Virginia for letting him live a lie – for allowing him to toss the first ten years of his life into the steel jaws of amnesia; for sweeping what happened to him under a proverbial rug, unspoken for decades even up to her death; for trading the help he desperately needed for something as silly as pride. He was angry at his own inability to ever feel _normal_. He was angry at the schoolyard bullies – faces branded with brilliantly burnt detail against the fleshy pains of his heart – who drew ashamedly unwanted attention to the fact that his own pitiful existence was so wretchedly insignificant… accessorized by matching bruises and bloody lips. And broken glasses. He was angry at Noah Bennet for baiting his mortifyingly virginal appetite with silky blonde hair and a pair of succulent breasts, freeing the caged killer wriggling in his brain while he poured his aching burden inside her, sweat mingling with hers in tiny dribbled drops. He was angry at Claire Bennet because at one point… her father chose to help _her_. So why not _him_? He was jealous of her and angry at her for blindly rejecting the potential she'd been gifted upon her birth, and for willingly wishing to throw away the kind of life he'd wanted for all of his. For fantasizing over sleazy or neglectful biological parents instead of seeing what was _right in front_ of her… least of all being thankful for it. And, lastly, whether he wanted to be or not… he was angry at Matt Parkman, for tricking him when he needed him most… regardless of the fact that he probably got what he really _needed_.

Two: _guilt_. He felt guilty over an anger he had no right to possess. He felt guilty for being alive. He felt guilty over a raging hunger he feared he could not control. He felt guilty for not turning himself over to the authorities, for not paying his penance before his penance became… _this_. He felt guilty for hating innocent people who wouldn't have hated him had he not maligned them. He felt bitterly guilty for every rationalization he made over the cost of a human life. It made his skin crawl and his stomach turn. It made him want to cut himself open – gut himself like the frog on the black slate lab table that bore the brunt of his teenage wrath. It kept him awake at night as he prayed for a death that shunned him as much as everything else.

Three: _Hopelessness_. His suffering would never end. Three years would stretch into thirty that would yawn away into three thousand and eventually three million. Everyday waking up, showering, eating breakfast, working on watches, eating lunch before taking a nap to deaden his boredom, waking to treat himself to a light five mile jog after which he'd spend his evening doing chores, making dinner, and reading until bedtime. His life was hung suspended in an eternal loop enriched by nothing more than occasional baked goods and frequent masturbation while his vocal chords shriveled from a prolonged lack of use and recognizable facial features began to ebb out of his memory as if they were slipping away by the pull of the moon.

Four: _Frustration_. He had unmet needs. His guilt strove to deny them, but his frustration beaconed their presence like a lighthouse in a storm. They were still _there_. It wasn't so much that he couldn't compare the flavor of his own corned beef reuben to that of Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop in Manhattan… when it was populated. It wasn't so much that he'd stopped staring at the static on television to fool himself into believing he saw faces. It wasn't so much that he missed smelling smog and exhaust and patches of tacky cologne and roasting peanuts in the park or tantalizing hot dogs from vendors on every corner of the city. It wasn't even the certainty that he'd never hear '_I love you_', although that was close. It was _touch_. He couldn't get her out of his head, the last person who'd dared to touch him. Her insincerity still rippled up his spine, the way her trailing fingertips traced the contours of his chest and combed through his hair, declaring him '_soft as a baby_', whatever _that_ meant. And before her had been a good woman who, by contrast, had loved every inch of him with a purity and conviction the likes of which he'd never known… and none of it had been for him, for she had believed him to be someone _else_. And now it tore him apart.

Five: _Loneliness_. He wanted a chance. Wanted to find… _it_. Wanted to fall in love, and be loved in return. Wanted to be a husband and father. Wanted a _family_. Wanted to let it all go, figure it out.

He wanted. His. Body. Back.

A nebulous drizzle dampened his dark hair as he stepped out of the car to jog quickly back into the house –

_Clang!_

He paused a moment before deciding it was only an echo of the car door shutting, drifting back to him on the rising wind. He turned the doorknob –

_Clang!_

His fingers fell away as he narrowed his gaze down the long asphalt corridor. The rain suddenly cleared. His shoulders bunched with unease as he backpeddled toward the car.

_Clang!_

Was something happening in the outside world? Something that would threaten to tear this one apart? Send him reeling and spinning into a black void of nothingness or maybe even… _death_? He dared not hope. Entranced, his feet began to lead him down the street. A dry, brisk wind blew sound around his ears, played tricks with his mind.

_Clang!_

"Sylar!"

He knew this day would finally arrive. Terminal insanity had come to claim him at last. Numb with acceptance, he decided to let it – let his face dip beneath the surface.

_Clang!_

"Sylar!"

A long figure, like a mirage, moved on the horizon, coalescing into… into a ghost… from years ago… felt like centuries. He made a slow, cautious approach, enraptured by the sight of foreign eyes… a nose… a speaking mouth… eliciting _real human speech_… his _name_…

"There you are."

Sunlight filtered through a crack in the hazy grey canopy overhead.

"Peter…?" he rasped.

One touch was all it took. One blessed touch and he was real. He clung to it like a life raft.

**oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo oOoOo**

Claire snapped the book shut. The sea was turning rough and the waves were buffeting the ship too violently to sit and read without being doused by a thick, fine spit of sea spray. She had only just awakened a scant few minutes before, unaware of what had happened, unable to remember, knowing only that they'd sailed off from port.

But no, before that… there was something. They'd entered a large hold in the belly of the vessel with the intention of systematically teleporting people away to safety using Peter's borrowed ability. What they'd found was a chaotic throng of sweaty, disoriented bodies teetering on the edge of panic-driven hysteria as they all began to swim back to reality. The air was stuffy and smelly, and Claire felt herself growing dizzy with claustrophobia as more people swelled through the entrance to envelop them. It felt like a trap and for a moment she thought Matt had tricked them.

"Peter," the man had murmured at her uncle's elbow, "you start zipping people out of here, and we're gonna get swarmed…"

"We're _already_ getting swarmed," she'd whined with wide eyes.

"I won't matter," Peter had answered, "I have no idea where we _are_. The instant I teleport away from here, I have no idea where to get back to."

"So, take them to the cabin," Claire had offered. "Take them to Molly. Have her find me."

"Yeah… yeah. Yeah, that'd work. Sylar, buddy, can you help me control this crowd?"

He hadn't answered.

"Buddy?"

His body language had been tensed for flight. He'd reluctantly lifted his chin to make eye contact with Peter but kept his mouth shut, lips sucked between his fiercely biting teeth. He'd been pale and clammy with his hands drawn tightly under his clamped arms. He'd been just how she remembered him from the cave.

"Maybe that's not such a good idea," she'd suggested before adding as his eyelids lowered in shame, "at least not so soon."

Peter didn't get a chance to form a response, or take any sort of action – the hatch had opened to admit the passage of two armed men, shoving their two additional captive hostages before them into the hold. Claire had almost felt the long hiss of air leaving Peter's body when he saw the woman who stumbled in first.

Emma's arm had been bound in a sling, her shoulder in need of a bandage change, and she'd been white with distress but was otherwise just fine. She'd suffered a non-lethal shot, which had explained the bloody mess left on the grass where she'd fallen, but the rest had been a complete fabrication – one of Matt's illusions. They'd invisibly taken her after that, right out from under their noses.

"I'm sorry, Pete," Matt had sighed, "I hope you can understand… it was my wife and _son_…"

Peter never heard him. He had lurched forward, out of earshot, trying to saw his way through a solid wall of people to get to her as they'd pushed her into the room to join the others. Like an idiot he'd called for her, knowing she couldn't hear him… or anything. He'd been acting on blind impulse. He'd reached her just as she'd toppled forward, there to break her fall with an emotional, smothering embrace.

Claire remembered starting forward to join them, but an abrupt movement had caught her attention. The second prisoner had raised her arm. Her lips had moved and her eyes had shone a mellow blue. One by one, like dominoes, people had begun to fall until she, herself, felt sleepy and… she stopped seeing.

And then she woke up, surrounded by adults napping like kindergartners. Figuring it had been her super-human metabolism that had woken her before anyone else, she stepped out of the hold and onto one of the decks outside, relishing some fresh ocean air while she waited for her fate, reading to calm her nerves. Finding it too wet to continue, she pocketed the journal and wandered to the edge, pressing her body against the railing as she let her hair fly in wet strings over the side. She wondered what would happen if she flung herself over, wondered if the water was cold or warm, wondered what sea she was even looking at. Would her ability to regenerate keep her muscles refreshed as she swam for days or potentially weeks? Until she reached dry land? Or would she succumb and drown, live in the belly of a shark until the creature was caught by a fisherman… or until it died and deposited her inert remains on the sea floor never to be found by human eyes unless she became part of the archaeological record…

She backed away from the railing. She couldn't leave her Peter behind, anyway, let alone the rest of those people.

She winced as something suddenly slammed against the wall beside her, scraping and thrashing and pounding away on the inside before blasting through the hatch. She scrambled out of the way as three men wrestled each other in a thick knot raging with popped knuckles and noses spurting blood. Unsurprisingly, Sylar was in the middle of the mess. The two men clambered over him with the forcible vehemence of parties who'd definitely been wronged in some easily guessed way, and she marveled over how Sylar managed to defend himself through completely normal human means. Was he so stunned he merely _forgot_ that he was an amazingly powerful telekinetic? Or did he enjoy the pain that came with a fractured jaw and a broken nose? It wasn't like he wasn't trying… his long arm jutted forward and, with a resounding crack, one good fist collided with the face of an attacker. The man fell backward and lost his balance, landing with a hard thud on the deck. Sylar took the opportunity to thrust his shoulder into the gut of the remaining man, bashing their combined weight against the bulkhead. Claire gaped in confusion. What was it about a good old-fashioned fist fight that he wanted so badly, that he didn't just end it before it began? Was it the release of tension? He struck at them without any of the finesse of a seasoned street fighter or a skilled martial artist – he fought with the fury and desperation of a bullied teenager on the school yard after class, wildly throwing punches where he could with a strength no one suspected.

Before she could wonder what she should do, more men filed through the hatch, anxious to carve their own mark in his hide. Did they know they wouldn't be able to kill him? What were they trying to do? The deck rang beneath her feet when the mob upended Sylar's struggling form, smashing his weight flat upon his chest, his arms and legs pinned by a flurry of eager hands. Unless he used his abilities, he would no longer be able to resist them as they pummeled him to a bloody pulp.

"Fight back…" she whispered, caught off guard by her own reaction. He managed to twist his chin around, lining one eye up with hers, the other too swollen to be of any use. He blinked away a trickle of reddened sweat. What was he looking for? Did he want her to see him suffer? Was he looking for help? What assistance could she possibly offer without an offensive ability? She was no life raft… And really, didn't he have this coming anyway?

"STOP!"

Peter charged through the hatch. He sustained several cuts and bruises in his attempt to rescue his brother's killer before the entire brawl was brought to a screeching halt by the sound of one woman's voice.

"Leave the other one alone."

Finding herself gripping the railing, Claire turned and watched a regal and stately African woman emerge from within the hold.

"The other one, though – the _monster_… he goes over the side."

"Wait! No!" Peter cried in spite of knowing Sylar could fly. He must have been thinking the same thing _she_ was. _Would he?_

"He didn't kill anyone," the words leapt to her mouth. She knew the truth, though, and with everything she'd dealt with over the past few days, she was tired of fighting. "I know it looks like it, but he didn't do it –"

"And who are _you_?"

Defiance burned inside her. It wasn't one of the _better_ Bennet traits.

"Who the hell are _you_?"

"My name is Monique, and I'm in charge here. Not that it matters because now you're going to join him. Hope you can swim, sweetheart."

**A/N #2: Do you get the feeling they might be spending even MORE time stuck together? Well... you might be right =D**


	15. Deep Water Part One

**A/N: Ahhhh this is nice - like slipping on my favorite old robe after a VERY long, hard week at the office =) I'm still alive, folks, still breathing, moving on, everything is going to be okay - and I'm WRITING! This was a big achievement, finishing this chapter. It was a milestone - it told me that I would be able to come back to myself. But now I've really gotta go back and re-read eveything I've written so I can make sure I don't step on my own toes, LOL! The show must go on! We have the birth of a new trio, my lovelies, AND what I think is some really nice Sylaire interaction. A real conversation, folks - a step in the right direction. I truly hope you enjoy!**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**(This chapter edited because a kind reviewer did point out one teensy little error I couldn't live with – thanks again punkin! It's folks like you that take these stories and make them better /love)**

**15) Deep Water (Part One)**

"You're absolutely _positive_?" Lauren asked for the third time since they'd stepped off the plane and began their trek, streaking through a ruddy martian Arizona landscape interrupted by the occasional jarring appearance of alien cacti, in a compact rental car.

"I've already told you," Tracy gritted with sand in her teeth, "all I could find in those file cabinets was that he _had_ gone to Coyote Sands, but _nothing _stated what he was looking for."

"Or what he _found_..."

"You looked at the same files, you know..."

"I know, I'm just trying to be thorough. Old habit."

Lauren was still picking at a chapped flap of skin on her lower lip, mesmerized by her own ponderings, when they pulled up to the very same cursed unmapped outpost – a foul collection of crumbling, derelict buildings and unmarked (not to mention _disturbed_) graves in the middle of blustery nowhere.

Where another vehicle also happened to be parked.

She locked suspicious eyes with her partner at the uncanny coincidence, then, weapon having unconsciously migrated to her twitchy hands, she proceeded to cautiously exit the vehicle. Her heels had no sooner crunched two dainty holes into the crusty earth when both women jumped, a boisterous clamor having split the still, dry air – that of collapsing lumber, brittle and arid as a mummy's tomb, emphasized by hacking, raspy coughs… and a another woman's voice.

"Jesus Christ, fucking snakes – shit! Gonna freakin' _die_ out here…" Emerging in a cloud of dust and waving arms was young red-head neither of them recognized. "Can't even get a decent cell phone sig–" She halted in mid-sentence upon discovering she was astonishingly not alone in the surrounding vastly desolate expanse of desert. She instantly spied the gun Lauren held rigid but ready at her side. Transparent thoughts shone a frightened kaleidoscope across the gleam in the woman's eyes – clearly she feared for her life.

"I… I know I'm not trespassing," she defended, lifting her hands complacently.

Happy to assume control over the situation, Lauren did nothing to reassure her. This time, gratefully, Tracy let her do the talking.

"Who are you?"

"Jennifer," the woman confessed, "Jennifer Ozias, although really I prefer just Jen – am I doing something wrong here?"

"That all depends – what _are_ you doing here?"

For a split moment – one Lauren could relate to on a deeply personal level – a flare of indignance steamed a blush over Jennifer's cheeks, but another glance at the expertly gripped firearm in Lauren's hand kept her from vocalizing her misgivings.

"I'm a freelance investigative journalist," she offered instead with an undertone of impatient sass. "I provide material for news stations and several publications in the Chicago area. I'm, uh… I'm currently working on a piece dealing with the disappearances of several people with para-human abilities across the country. They came to my attention around the time a local woman's husband went missing."

"And that's what brings you to an abandoned _military_ facility in the middle of the desert?" Lauren lied.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, and without compromising the anonymity of my sources, I have reason to believe that this '_facility_' had less to do with the military than you would like to think." Well, now. Who would've thought. Not just _any_ stranger miles from modern human civilization, but a _well-informed_ one. "The activity surrounding these missing people," Jennifer continued, "all seems to have something to do with two particular individuals, beginning around the same time one of them returned home from a trip… _here_. I just wanna find out _why_."

"Well that makes _three_ of us," Tracy muttered not quite out of earshot.

"What have you found?"

"Are you going to shoot me, or are we going to talk like women?"

The object in question began to tingle with acute discomfort between Lauren's anxious fingertips. She didn't want to like this '_Jen_', with her courageous straightforwardness and kindred inquisitive nature, but found she couldn't help herself. She put the gun back in its holster.

"I can only assume you're referring to Neil Culbertson…"

"You've heard of him?"

"He has been in the news a lot lately," Tracy pointed out.

"Look – obviously this isn't the kind of stuff I'm gonna dish to a couple of strangers like we're a bunch of old school girls or something… I think I've been really generous already – and I didn't even freak at being held at gunpoint –"

"What? I didn't even lift it!"

"You mind telling me who _you _are?"

Stymied, Lauren met Tracy's eye again, but found no affirmation there.

"What, it's not fair to ask in return?"

Of course it was. And Jennifer was right even though she wasn't – they were _all_ trespassing. _Equally_. But then, like the spark at the tip of a candle in the dark, an idea began to twinkle to life in the deeper recesses of her imagination… something Noah had said. The only way to end this conflict – to bring Neil Culbertson and his cohorts to justice – was to publicly expose them. Perhaps this woman was the _key_… Maybe they were on the same side. And if she was wrong about her, well… her _gun_ said she was in charge, right? And if not that, then the human-shaped freeze ray that traveled with her? Had she really lost any control? What did she have to lose, period? In a situation where time was of the essence, she figured realistically some risk was to be assumed. So, she made a decision, and placed her bet on trust.

"No, it's fair enough. I'm, uh… my name is Lauren Gilmore, and this is my partner, Tracy Strauss. We, uh…" she stammered at Tracy's continued silence, disappointed she didn't jump in this time, "we actually work for a non-profit organization protecting para-human rights. We, um…"

"We have Tawni Britton in custody," Tracy finally interjected, "and little Casey. We've heard of Barry Britton. That's your missing husband, isn't it."

"Yeah…" Jennifer wrinkled her delicately freckled nose at the truly bizarre set of circumstances she'd come to find herself in. Lauren could hear it in her voice – she, too, was struggling not to overstep the boundaries of her tight lips, but knew she could accomplish so much more if she just took a leap of faith. "Yeah, that's the guy…"

"Alright, look, this is stupid," Lauren plainly stated. "We're all smart, empowered women, I think we can all see the big picture here – we all want the _same thing_ – so I'm just gonna come right out and say it. We know Neil Culbertson, and the church he belongs to, are involved in these… _disappearances_, whatever you want to call them. We have actual proof, or at least we've seen it. And we, too, know he came _here_ while on a business trip. So... here we are." She swirled her hands with great flourish. "Let's discuss."

"It would seem he may have found something here that allowed him to formulate some kind of plan, then act on it," Jennifer began.

"Exactly. But here's the _problem_."

"_Naturally_, there's a problem."

"Oh, there are lots, I promise. More importantly, though, he's got a pair of hostages – a woman and her son. Her husband has what any idiot could see is an _extremely_ useful ability, but it's also a very _dangerous_ ability."

"They're making him do things, aren't they?"

"Yes. And wherever he goes, people turn up dead or gone… or _both_."

"Usually both," Tracy commented.

"Which leads us to the _other_ individual you're investigating," Lauren added. "Would his name happen to be '_Sylar_'?"

Jennifer didn't answer immediately, but her spine stiffened with intimate recognition at the sound of the two diminutive syllables labeling the obsession that had plagued her for the past several weeks, and her eyes widened with baited intrigue. It shouldn't have surprised her that her present company had heard of the enigmatic man, given their profession working with the para-human prey upon which he'd hunted for so long. It was that the conversation was taking place _at all_, lost on an uncharted parcel of Navajo desert no less, that surprised her.

"That would be the guy, yep."

"Yeah, we've met."

"Seriously…?"

"Don't get us started," Tracy rolled her eyes.

"And you lived?"

"You might find it interesting," Lauren ignored the question as she cocked her hip and eyed a passing shadow – a circling buzzard or cactus-dwelling hawk, "he has his own theory about what's happening to all of those people."

"Yeah, what self-respecting serial killer _wouldn't_ have some sort of grand delusion professing his own innocence?"

"Well, _this_ self-respecting serial killer's grand delusion has an established _alibi_," Tracy smugly imparted. "He says he was out of the country when some of these… '_disappearances_' took place, and there _is_ evidence to support his claim."

Judging by the impressive altitude her eyebrows managed to reach, Jennifer never saw that coming – never once considered, like most sane, rational people, that Sylar might not be guilty.

"That's… wow. That's interesting…"

"You have no idea…" Lauren murmured under her breath. "We also know that at least one of the victims he's reputed to have '_killed_' is actually very much alive and well. Gretchen Berg was treated for a minor head trauma at the Odessa Regional Medical Center before being released to go back home to her parents' house in Virginia. Other than that, though, she's just _fine_."

"I doubt _she_ thinks she's fine," Jennifer countered, "and she definitely has a story to tell – what _did _happen to her? What happened to the rest of those people?"

"The general consensus we're reaching," Lauren replied, "is that Parkman –"

"Who's Parkman?"

"– our friend, hostage's husband, keep up – we think he's creating illusions in order to protect his wife and son. We think he's convincing these victims and their families that Sylar is on a massive killing spree to throw the authorities off the trail."

"But to what end?" Jennifer mused. "And that still doesn't answer my question – what happened to those people?"

"According to the files we've seen," Tracy answered, dodging a tumbleweed by taking one conspiratorial step closer, "it looks like people are being kidnapped and stashed in great big caves dotting the Edwards Plateau in Texas."

"The place is like swiss cheese underground," Lauren added, "although even more recently he's started chartering a ship that's been making several trips out to the middle of the Gulf of Mexico for whatever reason."

"Neil Culbertson comes from a long line of oil barons – it's not hard to surmise that the place is probably an oil rig."

"It's like suddenly the caves weren't good enough, or maybe he wanted to try putting all of his victims in one place." Lauren shrugged in further thought. "I can see, maybe, why someplace with light and electricity and fresh air might be more attractive than a bunch of muddy old caves."

"So it sounds, then," Jennifer guessed, "like he's hoarding people. But why? And why the illusions? Why frame Sylar?"

"Oh that's easy," Lauren told her. "Barry Britton's family thinks he's dead, and it's very likely Barry Britton thinks his _family_ is dead. At this point, neither of them are looking for each other – the tie is severed. It keeps things much cleaner. I wish I could say it wasn't a tactic my… previous employer hadn't used every once in a while. But what we still don't know is _why_. Why _everything_. Why finance politicians and push so hard for para-human registration legislation only to turn around and collect them on an oil rig in the middle of the ocean in your spare time…?"

"Because…" Jennifer tapped her lips with one slender, well-shaped ruby fingernail, "the registration would be _public_. The United States Government would compile his list of victims _for_ him. As long as he has this Parkman guy, and Sylar to take the fall for them… he'd be free to do whatever he _wants_."

"And the answer to the '_whatever he wants_' has to exist _right here_… somewhere," Tracy breathed.

"Well," Jennifer admitted, "in that case, you better come with me – I think I may have found something."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Everything was fuzzy and grey and moving, like she were rolling on a soft, anti-chromatic blanket. Her stomach leaped when her body took another gravity-defying dip, and she crashed back to her senses at the bottom of the crest. Claire held herself steady with her left hand, clinging to something hard and metallic, stinking of sea grime and disintegrating lead paint. Despite her disorientation, her feet were planted and solid while the rest of the world pitched and yawed away toward the horizon – a melancholy tumult of watery slate and bubbly white foam, matching the gloomy overcast sky above. Figures in a broad encompassing hemisphere began to become more distinct as she forced her eyelids to blink, and muddled hums she'd only just noticed began to transform into individual voices. Some were whispering, others were arguing… one was just… breathing.

"No – leave her out of this – she hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Sir, you need to _back_! _Up_! She's obviously _with_ the demon –"

"She's my _niece_ – you don't know anything about her, _OR_ what's happening!"

"Why aren't you listening to me…"

"She's got some sort of power of suggestion, Peter… I can keep _us_ clear, but she's really powerful…"

Power of… was that what held her rooted to the spot? She sucked a startled breath when something like downy hair tickled her right wrist, and she truly saw for the first time the towering mass of human being who loomed over her with unnerving proximity. Carefully she squinted up at him, and his features began to sharpen as if a woodcarver slowly chiseled them into something real. An unbidden breeze merrily tousled his thick black unruly hair, just long enough to tease the tips of a heavy, formidable brow – one that shadowed deep, sad eyes. He moved with the boat, but was otherwise motionless, lips slightly parted as he devoted his dark-rimmed, soulful gaze to the ocean. Then, without warning, he shifted, placing both hands on the railing and locking both elbows as he transferred his weight. His posture made it horrifyingly evident he was preparing to climb over the side – he was going to fling himself overboard. Before Claire could determine whether or not Sylar was actually suicidal or acting outside of his own volition, she felt her right hand clang against the long metal rail as well.

It was zip-tied to his left arm.

"You've got to be kidding me…" It was the cave all over again.

"Matt – help me out here! Tell her Claire is telling the truth!"

"She's gonna have to stop throwing people overboard first…"

_Oh God. _If the shock of water didn't pull Sylar out of his brainwashed trance he'd drag her down with him like a pair of concrete shoes. She would drown – they would _both_ drown – and sink into the sightless depths, a mile or more from air… never to be seen again… never be found, never be revived, _oh god_, this was a real death…

"Sylar!" she hissed through a mortal panic she'd never known before. "Snap out of it!"

"And why should I believe _you_ two any more than _them_? Why should I believe _any_ of you? We _ALL_ know who he is!"

"But Pete's right, I can actually prove it, they –"

"Do you have any _children_, sir?"

All around her Claire could hear wispy snippets of false memories, faint as every accusing tear that splashed against the dampened deck.

_Killed my wife. Killed my husband._

_Killed my brother. Killed my sister._

_Killed my parents._

_Killed my babies._

_Murderer. Killer. Monster._

Undaunted by her plea, he lifted a foot, bracing it to pull his hip up onto the railing, tugging her along to grind her ribs against the unforgiving steel rod. Insistently she yanked against him trying to topple his tall, top-heavy weight, but found she couldn't budge him.

"Sylar!"

"Lady, I _KNOW_ who killed my fucking family, and I know what's happened to yours, too, if you would just listen!"

"So, you _admit_ you're with him?"

"Matt… you're gonna have to use your ability…"

"I'm doing all I can…"

"Is that a threat…?"

Sylar had one long leg already over the side and was in the process of bruising the fleshy planes of Claire's abdomen as he dragged her with him when, grasping for dangling ideas like carrots on sticks, she did the last thing she could think of. She mashed herself into the railing, stretching her petite frame to its fullest extent, and bit him just above his elbow with all her might, chomping until she felt the meat compress like a rare steak in her jaws.

"YEEOOOOOWUHH!"

With the lithe agility of a skilled hunter he made one fluid movement that brought him fully back around and onto the deck with both feet. Claire would've collapsed with relief if she hadn't been preparing to receive the sharp end of his malevolent wrath… which was currently wild-eyed and descending upon her like a bloodthirsty pterodactyl.

"What the fuck was th–"

"Shhh!"

"Of course it's not, but do you really think killing _her_ makes you any better than _him_? Or killing _anyone_ for that matter?"

"What was that for!" he snarled, adamant about finishing his statement.

"Don't be pissed at me!" Now was not the time for his infamous capriciousness to make an untimely appearance. "I had to do _something_! You were under her weird… _spell_ thing, and –"

"No I wasn't!"

"Yes you were! She was about to make you –"

"Then how come you aren't?"

"Maybe it doesn't work as well on women? _I don't know!_ You have to –"

"Why are we tied together?"

Why wouldn't he just shut up and listen?

"I was in the wrong place at the right time. You have to do something!"

"What did you do?"

"Really? Now? _Sylar!_"

"_What did you do!_"

"I…" She lifted their conjoined limbs to her forehead, which she rubbed prodigiously in equal parts exasperation and reticence. "Fine. Whatever. I defended you, okay? There. I said it."

He recoiled inwardly and his expression grew slightly frosty. Yet the way he wouldn't meet her eye told willingly of a warmth that suffused him and stopped just short of his cheeks and ear tips.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it's the truth…? Look, it doesn't matter, she –"

"And now we're tied together." It was like his brain was still coming back online.

"_Would you just shut up a minute?_ Good lord! She's gonna notice you're not under her control anymore and she's going to try to get you back. You have to do something!"

"Who?"

"_HER!_ It doesn't _matter_, just –"

"Do something, yeah, I got it – do _what_?"

"I don't know! _You're_ the genius with a buhzillion powers – _pick one_!"

"And you really think that evil son of a bitch is just gonna leave all of us alone? You are either stupid, naïve, or _badly _misinformed! This isn't murder, it's self-defense!"

Claire bounced restively on the balls of her feet as she shot furtive glances between her unlikely partner and their even more unlikely captor. Sylar's even sigh, however, drifting over her flushed skin when he faltered, drew her back to him as he retreated a half step, fists clamped strenuously against his sides. His eyes returned to that same distant spot on the reeling waves.

"You don't understand, Claire. You have no idea how hard this is… you have no idea what I'm going through… what I live with…"

"Lady, look, what happened to your family was just an _illusion_, I –"

"Oh no! I KNOW you are not seriously going to stand there and tell me that _you're_ right and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US is wrong!"

"Every day of my life, Claire… every day that I can remember…"

His sheepish, uncharacteristic reluctance made her want to kick him in the shins. More than usual, even. Where were the men with guns when they needed them?

"Sylar –"

"Look at me, Claire! _Look_ at what I've become! All shaky and clammy and _sick_ and shit…? And ten seconds from plunging into that water?"

"That's _not_ –"

"I don't wanna be this anymore! I don't wanna do this! Everybody here _hates_ me! Everywhere I go, _everybody_ hates me! There is not one single living thing on this planet that doesn't want me to _disappear_! My whole life is empty and meaningless, and everything I did to try to change it was, was… was what made it happen in the _first_ place! You have to understand this – everything I have ever done has been a mistake!" He lowered his voice in hushed humility. "I'm alone, Claire – I am _alone_. No matter what I do, I am always alone. Peter's charity is _not_ a home. I want… I want _something_, I don't know. I want _someplace_ where…" he wedged his hands, "I _fit_. But if I do this, Claire – to this person you're talking about… I do _something_ that harms her…" balefully he shook his head, conveying an unspoken emphasis, "I… I'm afraid I won't be able to _stop_, my… my control over this, it's… it's so _fragile_… Claire, _I will kill everyone on this_ _ship_. You _have_ to know that…"

"So you're not gonna do anything at all – you're just gonna go _take a swim_ if that's what she tells you to do?"

"Claire, please, it's not that –"

"And what is this _bullshit_ with you all wanting some kind of '_normal_' life all of a sudden?"

"That's not what I –"

"Yes it is! That's _exactly_ what you're saying! Wanting to… _fit in_, or whatever, and just be _some guy_. _YOU! _What the hell is _wrong_ with you? What was it you always used to tell _me_?" She jerked herself up onto her tip-toes and puffed out her shoulders, squaring her elbows in her most masculine, and most patronizing, impression possible, "we're _NOT_ normal, Claire! You should really try to see your true potential! Don't be such a waste of prime, grade A genetic material!"

"Claire, I never –"

"_Yes you did!_"

"Okay, well I was _wrong_, alright? Is _THAT _what you want? I've been a psychotic fucking idiot all of my fucking life and I've made a huge bloody mess out of it and I was _WRONG_! Are you happy now?"

"No, I'm not! That's _NOT_ what I want!"

"THEN WHAT!"

"I don't want to drown! Sylar, she is going to _kill_ us!" Grabbing his shirt and dislodging him from his anchor of self-pity, she opened her face to him in pleading sincerity. Her lips quivered and her breath came in fearful spasms. "I'm asking you to _rescue_ me! _Please_," she begged with a final whisper, "I don't wanna drown."

His brow creased in consternation and the seconds ticked like years. He dropped his eyes away and lifted his free hand to cover them as the earth continued to turn. His teeth speared his upper lip as he spiraled in confusion, and all around them the wind whipped the sea into frothy peaks while the ship's sailing bulk continued to crash over ceaseless murmuring and arguing.

"Ma'am, that's _EXACTLY_ what I'm trying to tell you. And while no one's denying –"

"You're insane!"

"NO ONE'S DENYING that that man _has_ killed people, and that he's _definitely_ not to be trusted and absolutely _should_ be kept under lock and key, but when it comes to what brought us all here, _I_ am the one who's responsible!"

"It doesn't matter anyway," Peter broke in while he could, "neither one of those two can be killed – they're _invincible_, and on top of that? He can _fly_. So why don't you bring them on back in here and we can talk about this _rationally_."

"Oh!" Sylar's abrupt exclamation shocked her with a jolt of hope, "here!" Between their noses he lifted the obstinate little plastic bond that bound them together, at which he aimed a deadly cutting fingertip.

"NO!" Claire cried as she pulled it away just as quickly. "That is _not_ a solution!"

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ it is! You'll be _safe_!"

"But _you won't_!"

"Now, _stop it_! Say whatever you want – I don't believe for _one minute_ that you actually give a shit –"

"_NOBODY MOVE!_"

The rattling thunder of footsteps shook the outer deck, emanating from a pair of staircases leading away into forbidden parts of the ship above. A mystified audience watched in silence as the stairs became coated with a layer of kneeling men carrying rifles.

"Y'all've had enough fresh air for today," spilled a crackling voice through a radio that was dangling from the hip of a flannel-clad militiaman. "I really don't want to have to have these nice gentlemen persuade you to go back into the hold the _hard_ way, so why don't we all just turn around all order-like, m'kay?"

A foreboding rumble growled from Sylar's throat, urging Claire to follow his line of sight to where it locked with laser precision on the shape of a man occupying the foggy windowed captain's chamber located high overhead… a man with a familiar stocky frame filling out a sickly grey suit… the same sniper who shot at her father in front of a cave in Texas.

When Sylar had sacrificed his life to save a man he hated.

The injury to his pride disfigured his scowl into something far more terrible. _Things_ were about to happen. Sylar was getting irritated.

"Sylar…"

"Claire…"

"_Don't_…"

"I can handle going to prison, Claire. I can handle facing the death penalty. I _want_ to pay for my crimes." He lowered his eyes to hers with a look that froze her with grim promise. It was soaked with the same intent that stung her when he coldly split her screaming skull, long ago. Despite his words, this man still toed a very fine line between repentance and madness – his own history was far too convoluted to grant him that sort of acuity. "But I want it to be on my terms." He lifted his lashes to his brow, allowing a short scan to appraise the herd, choosing his first victim. Claire felt her stomach twist. "I'm tired of being hunted. Aren't you?"

Where was his reluctance _now_?

It happened so fast Claire wondered how she'd ever managed to underestimate the surety and swiftness of Sylar's determination. His right arm sliced through the air, and a human-shaped smudge blurred her peripheral vision. Ignoring the raucous clacks of loading weapons she turned away from the mute, gaping mob to find a howling man dangling in mid-air over the churning sea, just in time to watch his forgotten gun slip from stunned fingers and plop into the ebon open water beneath him, poised and ready to swallow him whole like a hungry whale.

"OHGODOHGOD PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN!"

"_Sylar_ – what are you _doing_ –"

"_Turn this ship around and he'll live!_" Sylar shouted up at the stoic figure behind the glass.

"Bring him back and no one gets hurt," the man's voice countered, pealing disembodied from the impersonal confines of the radio.

"Surely you must know," Sylar smirked in his typical smarmy way, "that I can stop your men from firing." Claire was disturbingly aware of how powerful his bad side was, and she hesitated to wonder how he would accomplish such a feat… but she couldn't help but hope he wasn't bluffing. They were in deep water. "And even if I can't," he muttered more to himself, "I can count at least two, maybe three, other people right here on this deck who _can_."

The ensuing high-noon pause shattered her thin veneer of calm. While her terrorized lungs sucked air, waiting for someone to break the stalemate, she met the faces of her uncle, of Emma (who'd only just returned from the dead), even that of fatalistic Matt who was prepared to meet his family in their idyllic shared afterlife, and those of countless others she'd never met but would probably like to know – at least have the chance – and she wondered what they'd look like pelted with bullets while, through her own special brand of cosmic unfairness, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and wiped away the blood…

Sylar was never good at waiting. Stalking, yes, but waiting no. He was much better at forcing the hand. He hunched his shoulders and squeezed the fingers of his outstretched hand into a '_C_' shape, causing a dreadful reaction in his hapless floating prey – the man gurgled incoherently and clawed at his throat… as if here were being _hanged_ by an invisible rope. The man was turning purple… would he…?

"Sylar, _stop_ –"

"_Who's gonna be next after this one?_"

"NOOOO!" The feminine wail caught Claire off guard. She whirled to see Peter pull hard against Monique to keep her from charging the object of her worst nightmares, straining against her earnest and athletic struggle to get free. "He'll kill her! You bastard – _you've taken enough from me_! He'll _kill_ her!"

Returning her darting gaze to the grey-suited man, Claire could quickly see the scene upstairs had changed dramatically. The man had a powerful bargaining chip – a slight, dark-skinned woman, the same one she'd seen descend the stairs after Emma in the hold before they all fell asleep – with her cheek pressed painfully against the glass. The woman held the radio in her trembling fingers, unwillingly traded for the pistol that was digging into the back of her skull. Her terrified tears smeared against the translucent pane, marring the reflections of circling sea birds.

"Please," Monique continued to blubber, "I won't make you jump ship, alright? _Please_? You killed my husband, killed my boys… my _sister_ is all I have left…"

"He didn't kill anybody," Matt breathed at her shoulder, assisting Peter in keeping the volatile situation as calm as possible. "I know it's hard, but I'm asking you to believe me –"

"AAUGH OH GOD!" the radio roared with static. "He says, he says, he says… let him go, or he'll give my sister a _real_ reason to make you suffer…"

"You're kidding, right?" Sylar bit with his sarcastic self-assuredness. "That's hysterical – you're funny. I think we _all_ know there isn't a soul on this ship that can hurt me, or stop me if I don't wanna be stopped."

"NO!" Monique cried. "You monster! You _piece of shit_! Where is your _humanity_? You don't have one _single shred_ of decency! She is _innocent_! She's a good girl, she doesn't deserve this! _PLEASE!"_

Claire held her breath. She felt like she was standing on a sheer and mighty cliff face waiting for the wind to knock her either direction – behind her was a savage beast who had no qualms about sacrificing a human life if it meant he could start laying waste to his enemies one by one, and ahead of her was a black, dizzying chasm, at the bottom of which waited a tiny, dim soul whose gossamer light flickered weakly like a fading lantern, one who had finally learned precious things like mercy and forgiveness. She wanted to believe she could reach him but he was so far away… Acting on their own accord, the fingers of her right hand touched his left, delivering a hopeful squeeze – a silent appeal.

"_PLEASE!_" the radio cried. "Please stop! He's not messing around!"

His fingers slinked away as if by burnt by recrimination, but she could tell by the way the razor in his glare had dulled and softened that her message had been received. With the unwillingness of steel groaning under a hard cake of rust his arm creaked around and deposited his hostage with a graceless '_thud_' back on the deck, exactly from where he'd been unceremoniously plucked, gasping and clutching at his neck. Sylar sneered bloody menace up at his opponent. He didn't enjoy defeat. He didn't _accept_ defeat. He was merely biding his time. There was a clatter that came over the air waves as the grey-suit flung his bait aside and retrieved the fallen radio, unable to resist the barb.

"Well, now, if _this_ isn't just the most interesting turn of events. Our resident unrepentant serial killer has tossed away a _sure bet_ for… what? A _pretty girl_?" Claire heard Sylar's knuckles crack as he clenched his fists. "It sure as hell ain't because you've found a _soul_ all of a sudden, or something. All it would have cost was one little life, and you all could've been _free_… but suddenly that was too much for you? Well, don't sweat it, buddy. There's no telling what I'd do if I were tied to that, too." The snicker he oozed was revolting. Feeling the need to reassure him to avoid further violence, Claire tickled Sylar's hand with one more finger.

"Don't let him get under your skin."

"Too late."

"Monique, be a dear now," the man continued, "be nice to your sister and get your crew back down in the hold, mmkay?"

Gladly, she didn't have to use her ability, and she found no argument.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

"Look, I can see very easily how you must be telling the truth, but how can you expect anyone to _want_ to believe you? I don't _dare_ hope I'll ever see my husband and my boys again, not after what I saw happen to them – don't you think it's a bit cruel? What if you're wrong?" It was obvious Monique was fighting tears of bitter anguish in order to conduct what Claire hoped was a rational conversation.

"Ma'am, I'm in the same position. I know just how you feel. But I'm also responsible for all of this, and I can tell you beyond the shadow of _any_ doubt that your family is very much alive, thinking _you're_ the one who's dead."

"Matt," came Peter's cool timber, "why do you think your family is dead?"

"_Because_. I've been replaced by your siren girlfriend. Keeping Janice alive is a liability – she's a very powerful witness. And while I'm not so sure they'd kill a baby, I'm pretty damn sure I'll never see Matty again. So now, they'll just lump me in to be processed with the rest of my kind."

"What _are_ they going to do to us?" Monique prodded.

"I wish I knew. Countless times I've probed the big guy upstairs, but even he doesn't know."

"Plausible deniability," Peter added.

"Exactly. He's just taking orders. And he's _very_ loyal."

"Even if I am to assume everything you've told me is true," Monique went on, jabbing a finger in the air, "your _buddy_ over there is a danger to us all. You even said so yourself."

"Yes, I did. You don't even know the half of it."

"But Matt, he's right – you looked into his mind, you have to know he's telling –"

"Look, I gotta stop you right there," Monique turned to interrupt Peter. "I know that girl is family to you, and that you don't like it, but I have to think of everyone else, here – can you blame me? If you're going to vouch for him, then I need to hold you accountable, and that girl is your only collateral. They stay tied together, and that's that. I see her, but I don't see _him_? They're _both_ off this ship as soon as I catch 'em, you got it? And I'm telling you _right now_… I still got half a mind to send you both with 'em."

"No, I know, but nothing's gonna happen, okay? They're alright. Let's focus on what we're gonna _do_. Those guys out there may be the ones with the guns and a hostage, but we're the ones with all the _powers_, right?"

Claire twisted her right wrist against the plastic cuff cutting uncomfortably into her skin. It was looking like she wasn't getting rid of the milky white little torture device quite yet. A sticky bead of sweat was building between her skin and that of her unwanted companion, and it was beginning to itch. Noticing her unease, he shifted his arm closer to her to accommodate her shorter stature, attempting to allow her to relax, but he never lifted his head from where it rested – chin perched on knees pulled tightly against a heaving chest, fuming eyes too furious to make contact with anything or anyone other than the solidly shut cargo bay doors. Doors he could telekinetically open… if he were willing to risk Monique's sister.

But he _wasn't_.

Was that what kept him so upset? Being called out on going soft – a sucker for a '_pretty girl_'?

All around her was a pool of faces, no longer whispering, but watching him intently as if he were a bomb about to go off at any given second. She thought she ought to say something to try to diffuse him, but somehow felt '_hey, you didn't kill anyone, and you did the right thing when no one expected you to – good job, way to go_,' wasn't exactly going to do the trick. So, she did the unthinkable. She tried to get him to talk. On _purpose_.

"I wish I knew where we were going."

She didn't know why she said it, didn't know what difference it would make. It was just… kindling to start the fire.

"I _know_ where we're going."

"Oh you _do_?"

"Mhmm. There were oil rigs on the horizon – I saw them when we were out there. Gets my guess."

"… why oil rigs…? Think they're gonna set us on fire?"

"No idea."

"Why set us on fire if they could just sink us and drown us…"

She picked at her other thumb with her teeth while she waited for him to answer. His tensely quiet pause, however, told her he had no further interest in the subject matter – his mind was too busy chewing through other material.

"I wonder if we'd survive a fire… Well, I have, but I mean a _total_ fire – like, do you think we'd ever turn to ashes?"

Still nothing, no dice. She tried a different tactic.

"So... back in the hotel parking lot… in Texas… What was it you were talking about…?"

"You'll have to be more specific."

"When you were yelling at my dad."

"Oh. _That_."

"Yeah, that. Something about '_you didn't show up to save my life_,' or whatever. '_Your company just had to have its monster_.'"

"Right."

At last she was making headway – this finally stole his eyes from where they sought to penetrate the unyielding steel mass of the bulkhead. Yet for someone who had been so eager, at one time, to rabidly spill the beans on the topic, his tongue fell unusually speechless. At least for the moment. Claire was beginning to understand why the dynamic between this man and her uncle worked so well – Peter was a living, breathing well of infinite patience, and she was coming to realize that dealing with Sylar required an overabundance of it. A brain like his, designed purely for assigning order out of chaos however it saw fit, took time to formulate things like thoughts, reactions, and schemes. It was when he pushed things that he made mistakes. Tampering her own innate tenacity to see what would happen, she waited. And then he spoke. What ultimately came from him were words from a story, yet they spilled from his lips with human inflection and tone instead of drawing lines across her eyes in his comical, looping blue penmanship. It stirred something within her – something she did her best to ignore while she listened.

"Why…" he sighed, "why do you wanna talk to me so much?"

"Well… _look_ at us. I mean, we're tied together and we've got nothing better to do than sit around and wait for death. And I'm _scared_. Maybe I just wanna take my mind off of it."

"Fair enough. But it's not something I really like talking about."

"Coulda fooled me… you were practically _screaming_ about it then…"

"I know… it's just… I dunno. There are parts of that _should_ be known, but there are other parts that're…"

"What? Shocking? _Condemning_? Because, Sylar, let's be honest –"

"No, nothing like that…"

"Then what? _Embarrassing_?" The way his teeth seized his upper lip told her yes. She would have to proceed delicately. "Oh for Pete's sake, stop acting like you still have dignity and just tell me already." She took him for the kind that preferred a more direct approach.

"Oh fuck off, alright? Can your little cheerleader featherbrain suspend your disbelief for one minute long enough to consider that maybe – _maybe_ – I _didn't_ always want to be this? That maybe there was a time when I _didn't_ want to hurt anybody? Or is that too mindblowing for you?"

"That you were just some regular joe? Yeah, maybe."

"Well, I wouldn't…" He shrugged away the rest of the statement. He'd never really been '_regular_', although he wouldn't verbally concede that far. She got that. '_Regular_' guys didn't become killers, unless they became deranged in the military or by something equally traumatic.

But something traumatic _did_ happen, didn't it? The leather-bound account still guardedly concealed in her jacket pocket bore evidence, mimicking the ghost of a dream that lingered in the hollows of her waking memory – a little chart: two columns, four rows. '_Watched mom die._' Would… would he talk about that?

"Look… alright," he began. "You want it? Fine. Here goes. Did your dad ever tell you that the Company had me? Long ago?"

"Like, _locked up_?"

"No. Like, being _observed_. He didn't tell you?"

"_Sylar_. He didn't tell us _anything_. What he _told_ us was that he worked for a _paper company_. Don't be silly."

"So, then I'm guessing he didn't tell you what I was doing when he found me."

"This is the embarrassing part, isn't it. Was it something dirty?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't even know why I'm subjecting myself to this. _NO_ it wasn't anything fucking dirty… although I suppose some people shit their pants when they hang –"

"Like… from a _noose_?"

"No, Claire, from a fuckin' chandelier – of course from a fucking noose! Would you just shut up and let me tell the story?"

Cold comprehension washed over her – her dad had caught him in the act of _committing suicide_. It wasn't that it was embarrassing – it was just intensely personal.

"Sorry."

"Whatever. Anyway. Yeah. So… yeah. I, uh… I was a very different person once. Like… I wasn't exactly the social, outdoorsy kind…"

"I thought you were gonna tell me something shocking or amazing." He singed her with a scalding hot glare. "Sorry."

"I was angry. Well, sure, like _now_, except all… you know. Pent up, I guess. At the time I didn't really know why, only that there was just something… _wrong_ between me and my mom and I hated it. Something wrong with my _life_… something… missing, maybe? Something. She… she hoarded me. I felt like a _doll_, sometimes, I dunno. My whole life was just… _weird_. Like… the kind of weird that you can't quite put your finger on, but something was just… _off_. Weird enough that I wanted to escape… but I didn't and I don't know why."

"Is this your real mother?"

There it was again. That icy, jagged, reproachful break in the pace of their usual banter, stopping the cork over everything he wouldn't be saying.

"No," he finally said, "no, my adopted mother. And… yeah. That probably had a lot to do with it. I should've applied for that assistanceship at Stanford… it's scares me to think sometimes about how different things would be… She wanted me to be… you know, all of these _things_, but nothing I did ever really made her happy. She wanted me to be successful, but not if it meant I went away or left her life, like she didn't _trust_ me. She pushed me in all of these directions that she never wanted me to take. I think she might've been crazy." The assessment, coming from him, was laughable but she managed to contain herself. "Bipolar, something. I dunno. She hung on, all my life, like I might fly away."

"Because you were never really hers."

He nodded gravely in a manner that made her wonder if there was more to it than she was really seeing. She had no doubt that was likely the case.

"She had this huge collection of snow globes. I gave a lot of them to her, looked high and low for interesting, unique ones. Some were very expensive, others were just neat. All of them were from places we'd never been. Claire… I lived my whole life inside of a fucking snow globe… trapped inside a dome of glass, preserved in some fake little world made from molded plastic. Mom just wanted everything to be perfect all the time, but to me it was all just… _fantasy_. Nothing was ever _real_."

"So you killed her?"

Shamefully, he dipped his head and mashed his nose against his thigh.

"I'd already… yeah. Yeah, I'd done… _things_. It wasn't like that, though. It was an accident – she was scared of me and she panicked and… it just _happened_. I didn't mean to… I just… I'd just found out I was going to end up killing millions of innocent people and I wanted her to tell me I wasn't… I just wanted her to tell me I was going to be okay. Claire…" he turned haunted, plaintive eyes to her and she tried to mask her confusion, "you have to believe me when I tell you there have been many times when I knew what I was doing was wrong and I wanted to… to just _stop_… to be _anything_ else… but I didn't know _how_."

"When you were partnered with my dad…was that…?"

"Yes. That was real. Well, from me it was, but everything else turned out to be just lies – your _fucking grandmother_… but that's not what this is about. That came _after_. No, my first dose of reality came when I met Dr. Suresh."

"You talked about him in the cave. He did something."

"He came to me. In my little self-made dungeon. Crashed right through all of my walls and told me he believed I had something… something _special_. He just unlocked the cage and threw open the door, just like that. Suddenly I had a destiny – I was free. It was the best day of my life."

"So what happened?"

He dawdled momentarily, writhing his wrist against hers and leaning imperceptibly away, perhaps to create some distance.

"He said the tests he ran were inconclusive."

"What tests? What does that even mean –"

"He thought he was _wrong_, Claire! Come on! He was wrong about _me_! And in hindsight, he probably was – look at what I am! How could I possibly have been what he was looking for – he was going to send me back to my little hellhole of a life and be rid of me!" His eyes darkened like the looming threat of a violent, electric thunderstorm. So _that_ was Suresh's crime – he'd broken the heart of a desperate lunatic when he'd needed him most. "And I probably would've done the same thing, knowing what I'd become. But that's when I found him – the next guy on Suresh's list, the one that would _replace_ me, some poor sap who had no idea what kind of gift was about to be given to him. _Brian Davis_."

A shiver straightened her spine at the poignant delivery of that final detail.

"You… you remember his name? Do you remember all of their names…?"

She swallowed as he carefully composed his response, tucking his knees in a little tighter, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"It's probably best I don't answer that question, Claire."

"Yeah… probably…" She was more than happy to let her imagination ebb away.

"I wonder what you would say if I told you I grieved his death, even. As much as I grieved the loss of my own innocence. I felt more… _disgusting_ than I ever have – I was horrified with myself. I couldn't even live within my own skin. I couldn't handle it, Claire – can you understand that? I couldn't _cope_. So… yeah. That's where Elle found me… choking at the end of my own pathetic noose."

"Elle… _Bishop_…?"

"You know another Elle?"

"Well, no, but –"

"I found out later, she was your dad's partner at the time." He barked a harsh laugh. "Ironically… he'd shown up to bait me with a '_pretty girl_'."

"But… why? What did they hope to gain?"

"Claire, you need to have no illusions about this – your dad has ended a lot of lives. Possibly more than _me_ – the _devil himself_. I think sometimes your grandmother, and the other nutjobs in charge of her completely fucked up organization needed affirmation or whatever to justify their crimes. Like it was a _war_ or something. They _needed_ a bad guy, and here they had their killer. Gonna _show the world_ how dangerous we are. Claire – don't you see? Your dad blathers on and on about saving people, but he could've saved _ME_. They could've taken me in, given me a home and a family, could've gotten me help, could've taught me to _control_ my ability so it didn't control _me_. I could've been _useful_ to somebody. I could've _been_ somebody. But instead… they tricked me."

"They made you feel something for her, didn't they? She made you do something you didn't want to do? Is that it? Just like today?"

"NO," he told her firmly, jerking her hand, "_not_ like today. I… no. I was _good_ today. I mean, I was, wasn't I? No one died…? I did okay, right?"

"Yeah, yeah you did. You did good."

"Right…"

"So what did they make you do?"

"What do you _think_ they made me do, Claire? They wanted to see how my ability worked… so they got their wish. And I guess after that… something just… _snapped_."

"And you blame my dad."

"I blame a lot of things, Claire. But it doesn't change the fact that he saved _YOU_… and _no one_ else."

"Well, that's because you weren't all cute and fuzzy and wrapped in pink."

He sniffed a soft chuckle that took her by surprise – a quick flash at the corner of his mouth of rare genuine humor. It faded just as fast, however, behind a waxy film of jealousy and remorse.

"It also sounds to me," she went on, "like you have some pretty serious daddy issues. Where _was_ your dad through all this?"

And that was where she lost him. While the rage that had radiated from him with blistering force had subsided to a simmering smolder, his gaze slid from her to return to its previous source of frustration.

"Gone," was all he said.

She felt foolish for suspecting any less.

**A/N #2: Phew this chapter ended up big, too =) But awwww, what's this? Makin' friends? Heeee /squeeze**


	16. Deep Water Part Two

**A/N: WHEEEE! My life is music, kiddies. All about music right now. Like, I've even dyed my hair and we're getting ready to record. After that, we're all about live gigs. But aside from that? I have no excuse. I was firmly in the steel-trap jaws of writer's block for a long time, and on top of that I've developed a new obsession with the British version of 'Being Human'. Anyone else here ship Annie and Mitchell? GUH! They make my little shippy heart beat, I swear. Anyhoo, knuckled down today (I'm on vaca this week) and just freakin' finished up this chapter al-freakin'-ready. It's crunch time now, though. We're building up to a climax here and I have some serious planning to do, and I feel like I've been caught with my pants down! Anyhoo, this was a fun chapter - great MoNoEd trio action going on, TraLauJen trio is on to something, and Sylaire banter is a-flowin'. OH. And there's someone else making an appearance in this chapter... hmmmm...  
**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery (just like the last story). And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D**

**16) Deep Water (Part Two)**

Mohinder probably should've felt a bit more embarrassed having shoved Janice's head into his lap, but he was too busy dodging the bullets he was sure would follow their fish-tailing, mud-flinging escape to be concerned with the unintended sexual assault on his best friend's wife.

"Get down – _down_!"

Matty squirmed between them in the musty bench-style back seat of the Challenger, but didn't accomplish more than merely rubbing his plump legs against the leather.

"They won't shoot," Noah stated as he squinted that grizzled, Clint Eastwood sort of way that Mohinder had come to notice meant he was talking, scheming, concentrating, and driving at high rates of speed across off-road terrain all at the same time. "Not while we have _him_."

He was referring to the black-clad occupant of the passenger seat, currently bracing his rigid posture to its fullest strength by trying to remain stoically calm while being comically jostled out of every attempt to do so by the weaves and bobs one could expect from driving a muscle car through a thick knot of forest land. His manicured fingernails digging into the armrest, he squeezed his eyes shut as they bottomed out in another dip that had been camouflaged by shaggy grasses and a half-buried log.

"You're _not_ going to get away, you know," he muttered through stiff lips.

"Shut up."

So that was why the holy man was abducted at the last minute – a safeguard against errant shots. Probably not a bad idea with a child in the car. With that in mind, as if on cue, Edgar – the outline of his body a blur amidst a miasmic cloud of dirt and weed pieces – leaned close to the driver's side window from where he ran alongside.

"Give me the baby, mate. I can get him out of 'ere, safe and sound."

"Do it – it's the only chance you'll have," Brother Jacob concurred.

"I said _shut up_. Mo, pass him out your window."

"NO!" Janice cried, good sense falling hapless prey to the primal maternal instinct urging her _not_ to toss her baby out of a speeding, open window. "No – you'll drop him!"

"It's only gonna get worse from here, Jan, and you know it," Noah replied over the roar of the engine. "They're not gonna catch Edgar."

Caught between panic and protectiveness, unwilling to relinquish the child with whom she'd just been reunited, she cast her wide eyes up to Mohinder, hovering above her, seeking an answer.

"I won't drop him, you know I won't," was all he could manage, but it was enough. With the dogged movements of a lassoed mare she shifted and slid the child into his arms.

"Quickly," Edgar called on the other side of the window, "these trees here are about to be a problem!"

'_Besides_,' Mohinder reassured himself, '_Edgar would be quick enough to catch him… wouldn't he?_'

Fighting a gripping anxiety that threatened to crush the life out of the wriggling boy in his arms with super human strength, he summoned the reserve to be gentle and, in one swift motion, passed the toddler through the window straight into Edgar's outstretched hands. Without another word the two disappeared leaving only a plume of dust to show that they'd ever existed. Janice could only clutch her heart and sob silent prayers. She gasped as she experienced another brief second of zero gravity before the weight of the car crashed against its suspension, clanging Mohinder's teeth together, narrowly missing his tongue.

"Why didn't we just take the _road_?" he growled.

"Because it's expected. Besides, this is a short cut."

"It's not a short cut if it _kills_ us… what are we gonna do about the van?"

"Report it stolen? I don't care. It's the least of my worries right now."

For the first time, Mohinder found he had to agree with the man. He swallowed, then, the subsequent question to which he didn't want to know the answer – '_what are we going to do with the preacher?_'

Just then, like a hungry shark, they burst out of the clinging undergrowth and skidded a gravelly semi-circle across a sudden expanse of back country road before spraying a powdery mass of pebbles into the hazy springtime air as the vehicle righted herself and charged toward the horizon. She was stopped however – brakes squalling and tires sliding on loose rocks – by an eager and rapacious cavalry of gleaming, howling county sheriff blazers pouncing over the hill. Two blocked their path ahead while three more swept up behind to impede any chance at retreat. They were in deep water.

"We've got two guns and super-human strength, and that's it," Noah whispered in the unnerving calm that followed as the dust settled on the rumbling hood. It was a losing game, but he was going to place his pieces in the best way he could.

"OH MY GOD!" Janice cried when the screeching skirl of Noah's phone ringer filled the cabin, splitting the tension like an axe.

"I'm sorry, Lauren," he told the device as he lovingly stroked the ignore button, "can't talk right now."

But then an idea popped into Mohinder's mind, blooming like a dazzling iridescent bubble so simple and succinct that his face warmed with smug satisfaction.

"You mean to tell me you don't know how you're going to get us out of here?"

"Gimme a second, Mo, I'm working on it –"

"No, seriously, it's so easy – you really don't know?"

"Mo, don't be a jackass – if you've got something to share with the class, please – "

"Oh, well, yes, then, in that case, please – _allow me_ to save the day this time!"

Even Brother Jacob peeked over his shoulder in curiosity as Mohinder, with great flourish, produced his own cell phone from its pocket and placed two text messages – one with a phone number, the other with explicit instructions.

"That's it?" Noah groused, watching in the rear view mirror. "That's all you got?"

"Just give it a minute."

"Mo…"

"Step out of the car!" hollered a brown and tan clad deputy, bull horn tipped under the shadow of his hat's wide brim. "I wanna see those hands in the air!"

"…we don't have a minute." Car doors transformed into barricades as the troop of lawmen disembarked from the relative security of their vehicles and drew a steady, confident aim on the Challenger while exposing as little vital flesh as possible.

"THEY HAVE GUNS – SHOOT THEM!" Jacob shouted to his compatriots, uselessly. "THE BABY'S GONE – _SHOOT THEM ALL_!"

"That's not a very Christian attitude," Noah began, but was silenced when a figure appeared in the middle of the road before them, smiling his usual cherubic yet mildly arrogant smile, slurping an ice cream cone while the rest of the world did his bidding and froze in perfect place like bugs fossilized in ageless amber.

"Oh! Hello!" Hiro waggled his fingers while his tongue removed a creamy moustache from his upper lip.

"Told you so," Mohinder couldn't help himself as he disentangled his limbs from Janice's death grip and exited the car. "Thanks for coming," Mohinder told the little Japanese man as he rounded the front of the hood. In his peripheral vision he saw Brother Jacob make a sudden movement, but Noah, unsurprisingly, was quicker. The glint of his cold steel barrel scattered prisms of light across the windshield.

"You can run if you like, but I can make you stop," Noah warned. "Doesn't take a huge bullet to blow out a kneecap. Just something to consider."

"Is no problem," Hiro replied, merrily turning a circle, taking in the petrified surroundings. "Is my duty."

Mohinder picked his way around the motionless police men, trying to ignore the way their seeing eyes stared blindly ahead, doing his best to remember that their interrupted neural impulses weren't actually perceiving him as he circled his arms around the first one's waist to pluck him from his spot and move him out of the way. It was surreal the way the flesh was still warm and yielding, yet completely inflexible. Once the men were clear and the two blazers in front were chucked like Tonka toys to where they cartwheeled to a stop somewhere lost in the woods, he turned to the three blazers behind. Each one took a heavy sledgehammer fist to the engine block.

"Alright," he piped, slapping his palms together indicating a job well done as he climbed back into the Challenger, "we're home free! Thanks Hiro!"

Hiro, mouth full of frozen mush, only held his dripping cone aloft in mock salute.

"He's… just gonna stay there?"

"I suspect," Mohinder answered, "he'll just go back to where he came from."

And with that affirmation, once Hiro stepped aside, Noah put the gas pedal to the floor. Hiro toed the dirt, sunning himself, bathing in affable southern humidity as he whittled his cone down to a soggy, napkin-swaddled nub. Popping the last bit in his mouth, he smiled, winked, and reappeared next to the same table outside a New York City ice cream parlor where he'd been when he'd received Molly's message – a set of coordinates and the request of a favor from her foster father. He remembered well, though, the last time he'd seen his friends… arriving with a certain dead but recovering serial killer. His good mood evaporated as he became concerned. He sent a quick message back to Mohinder, politely wishing to inquire what else he could do to help. After all, a hero's rightful place was wherever danger reared its ugly head, and it was his instinct to seek it out like a moth to a flame.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

*** _yesterday morning_ ***

The old man had just finished buttering his toast – leaning weakly on the counter while fishing in the refrigerator, deliberating over the choice between strawberry jam or blackberry preserves – when he briefly lost his mind. He had no memory of the trek he most certainly had to have made, navigating the dense maze within his home constructed from his hoards, the fruits of his macabre hobby – trophies of snarling predators and life-like grazing hoofed or winged mummies that somehow managed not to occlude the large picture window facing the field of wildflowers outside, its austere frame decorated by a flock of happily beckoning bird feeders. He also noticed with great disdain that he'd left hastily enough to have neglectfully dragged his life-sustaining oxygen supply through the grassy, scarcely-used driveway dirt behind him completely forgotten. This was _quite_ unlike him.

Bending on wobbly knees to gather the thin tubing and collect the tank in his arms, bemoaning the fact that the cart that carried it had been lost somewhere inside in the journey, he had enough time to wonder what had summoned him so insistently before the wind began to alarmingly howl. Gusting hard enough to topple him over onto his brittle hip, he rolled against the hard-packed gravel in a manner that deprived him of any dignity while his robe twisted around him like a terrycloth python.

A helicopter was landing on his front lawn.

A vicious scowl curled his lips as he labored to climb to his feet, slapping the dust from his pants with a bit too much vigor while the great propeller on top of the unwelcome behemoth began to crawl to a stop. A typical curmudgeon, he did not like visitors. An a-typical curmudgeon, however… he had absolutely _no_ single need for a shotgun. His ways were much more effective. At least the ones he could remember. He flexed the stiff bones in his wrist as a stout man in a grey suit ducked out of the vehicle and crossed the scrubby grassland he called his '_yard_'. He held out his hand as he approached with brazen risk.

"Howdy. Sorry 'bout the unannounced visit, my name's Jim. You must be Sam Gray, yes?"

Sam. Not '_Samson_'. He hadn't been called that since… oh hell, it didn't matter, his youthful memories were just as vacant as half of every ragged breath he took. Irritated, he lifted a warning finger that was very capable of murder and just as eager to commit it. The '_Jim_' character stopped abruptly as if he were mysteriously aware of just what that finger could do, and he raised his hands peacefully into the air.

"If I know who you are," he began, "then it stands to reason I know what you can _do_. I've had the opportunity to look through a lot of old secret files…" his voice trailed but his meaning was clear. "I'm just here to ask for your help." The fingertips of the man's left hand twitched a tiny command and two more figures emerged: one pressing the barrel of a gun against the temple of the other – a slim, pretty blonde woman. And suddenly he was painfully reminded why he chose to sequester himself to life as a bird-watching hermit in the middle of a nigh-impenetrable forest (except, evidently, by _air_). He wanted to ask, '_how did you find me_,' but the question hung as a lump in his choked throat.

She was different from the other two… well, aside from her obvious difference in gender. Something about her… _ticked_ oddly. She awakened ancient desires and a buried demon. His periphery burned away to fuzzy shadow, he tunneled into her like an x-ray machine, following the circuits and pathways inside her skull until they led him to something… extra. Something no one else had… except _him_. It would only take a slight nudge in the right direction and he could see how it worked… then he could open her up and _take_ it…

"So," Jim's voice broke him from his lethal trance (how long had he been staring?), "if you wanna get dressed or something, I can explain on the way –"

"I'm not going _anywhere_ with you until you tell me what the hell you're doing here and why there's a _helicopter_ in my front yard!"

"I'm _here_ because I didn't have enough time to make you come to _me_, just like I can make you get in that chopper right now whether you want to or not." He must have been referring to the woman. Either that or she was brought to bait him. Either way, Samson had to give them man kudos for his balls. "Why don't you lower that finger and we'll talk. I need you, I told you already, I'm not about to _open fire_ or anything."

If there was one thing Samson Gray had worked hard to build, it was his civility. For decades the struggle to cage the beast within him and foster his own humanity had been his only reason for living. He lifted his chin with decorous amenity and let his arm sink to his side.

"You got ten seconds to tell me what you want."

"I told you already, just some help."

He was about to start slicing.

"Yes. Well, I guess I was just fishing for something more specific…"

"Okay, fine. There's a gentleman we plan on… liberating. He's particularly dangerous… and _necessary_ –"

"Necessary for what?"

"– and we need the help of someone equally powerful to keep him under control."

"You need a _babysitter_. Right." Mussing fingers through greasy, bed-matted hair, he nodded with surly sarcasm. "So, you just '_dug through some old files_' then. Dug until you found _me_. Yeah. That sounds like a load of _shit_. I think you need to be gettin' off my property."

"We had someone else in mind, but… he slipped through our fingers. Because that man was your _son_, we figured he might be a chip off the ol' block."

_Gabriel_. His eyes leaped from his toes and he joined the conversation with renewed interest.

"So why don't you just go _FIND_ him, then? Leave an old man alone to die in peace?"

"We're working on it. _Finding_ him, that is."

"And what makes you think I'd wanna just _help_ you anyway? Willingly? _Just like that?_ This old heart ain't got no kindness left in it. I really hope for your sake you weren't stupid enough to come here and _beg_ without bringing something to offer… or are you offering _her_?"

"Sam," Jim chided, "I told you, I don't _need_ to offer anything. But… there _is_ something. If we can get your son back, he's got someone with him who might interest you. You could have _her_ instead."

This had better at _least_ be amusing, for his trouble.

"Alright. Who."

A wolfish grin split the man's face as he practically salivated, preparing to offer that one irresistible bribe that would unquestionably close the deal.

"An indestructible girl… who will live _forever_."

A piercing vision shot through his brain like the arrows that had pinned his wayward son to the wall inside his home… yanked away to reveal nothing more than woundless smears of disembodied blood… like the slice on his hand that cleanly zipped itself back together as neat as a zip-lock baggie. He had to have gotten that ability from somewhere… He took in a deep sigh, as deep as he was allowed by the ache from the invasive tumor in his breast, able to feel within his very cells, like clockwork, the rate at which the malady was metastasizing. He remembered how very easy it had been to control people once. Control one man, find his son. That's all he had to do, and he'd be free from this cadaverous prison once and for all.

"What do you say, Sam? Will you help us?"

Since when did he have these inhibitions anyway? Didn't this guy know who he _was_?

"What do I have to do."

"Just come with us and be ready."

"I'd like to get my cart. And my breakfast."

"Whatever you need. You've got ten minutes."

Later, wirey grey hair combed and a fresh pair of pants donned from the dryer, he hauled his bent body and his accoutrements into the back of the waiting aircraft… to be seated next to a chubby bald man who amiably passed a hand across his body in an affable gesture of greeting – the same one Jim had made earlier. What was it with common humans and their incessant need to _bond_?

"I'm Doyle," the man introduced himself. "You met blondie up there? Cute, huh? You should hear her play the cello – _amazing_ for a deaf woman. So, you here for revenge too? What did the guy do to _you_?"

Confused but not interested enough to inquire, he gave only one solemn response before he turned his attention toward the panorama outside, shrinking away as the helicopter left the ground.

"No, I'm just here looking for my son."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

*** _back to present_ ***

A thick haze of particles twirled like myriad miniature ballerinas hanging in the dusky light of the rattling projector, as a spotty bright square plastered itself to the far wall where a hair-raising scene had just played itself out. The chasm in the middle of the Arizona desert shown gaping wide on the film they'd watched – deep enough to flood with a distant subterranean water table – no longer existed. The fact that someone could manipulate the very earth beneath her feet, to the extent that he could not only rip it open but could also sear it closed as if the great fissure were nothing more than modeling clay, frightened her to her shivering core. Especially given that the man responsible would happily siphon from her her abilities – her _essence_ – in order to wreak such havoc.

"I need to double check my facts, but isn't this the same guy, in Central Park last year…?" Jennifer asked, her pale-faced fears threading her voice into a trembling monotone.

"The very one, yes," Tracy answered hauntingly.

"Samuel… Sullivan, it says." She prodded a file that matched the one Tracy still held loosely in her hand.

"Yup, that's him." The same man who was able to shove an entire trailer home deep enough underground that only a sentient trickle of water could reach it to rescue the pair entombed within.

"So, looking here… it's faded and the graph is hard to read but…" While Jennifer sussed it out, Lauren was in the corner, fingertip plugging one ear, feverishly trying to reach someone named Virgil on the phone. "It looks like the study wasn't done on him as much as it was conducted on everyone _else_. Like, the result his ability had on the rest of the people who lived here."

Tracy flipped open her own file and scanned its contents, concurring with her claim.

"Yeah… it looks like they were studying the potency of their abilities."

"I don't understand…"

"Samuel's ability only worked this well by drawing power from other people with abilities, people like _me_. It's looking like his power actually has a side effect on the people from which he draws… hardly noticeable in small doses, but when he does something _big_, like _this_, it would appear that all of these people saw their powers greatly diminished for a significant period of time. But no one would've felt anything – they might not have ever even known unless they tried to use their abilities. A big enough cataclysm could have potentially rendered them permanently powerless. And the only person who could really corroborate this is Angela Petrelli… but her ability is so passive she may know nothing about it."

"Dammit," Lauren hissed, "Virgil's not picking up. That's _not_ like him – something's wrong." Frantically she began jabbing buttons, dialing another number. "Pick up, Noah, pick up, Noah, pick up, Noah…"

"Who's Virgil?"

"The man Noah and Lauren called to have Samuel incarcerated. He's _supposed_ to be his jailer... Are these _all_ the files?" Tracy asked, indicating the two boxes they'd pulled from a safe concealed in the aging rubble.

"No, there are some missing – the safe was open when I found it. I'm assuming Culbertson took the rest with him – he probably has the _really_ good stuff, and this here is just the beginning."

"SHIT!" Lauren yelled, frustrated by the repeated lack of response, raising her fist as if to throw the phone, then thinking better of it. "Samuel's free, Tracy, he's _free_ – I just _know_ it – and there isn't anything we can do about it!"

"_We'll find him_," she responded firmly. "We've done it before, we can do it again."

"That's what he wants then," Jennifer whispered conspiratorially, "Culbertson. He's an _oil guy_. He's going to open a huge crack in the world over a great big oil deposit, and the Preservists are going to help him because, in return, all the para-humans he would need in order to draw that kind of power are going to end up losing their powers for good."

"And if they have a para-human registry… they'd know exactly which people to kidnap. They'd have an entire nation's supply in the palm of their hands!" The file clapped against her thigh. "They'd be ridding the United States of the para-human threat while making Culbertson an _extremely_ rich man!"

"Son of a bitch…" Lauren breathed, "don't they know what he can _do_? With that much power, don't they have _any idea_ what he would have to do to this planet in order to wipe out all those powers? He could destroy us _ALL_ –" she jumped when her phone buzzed, singing loudly in her hand. "Yes! Yes!" she shouted with glee before she answered. "Hiro! I – yes? No – no, I haven't been able to get a hold of Noah either, although I haven't tried Mo… you can't what? Why wouldn't you be able to get a hold of Peter, he should be… yes. Yes, I know Sylar's with them, but… Yes! Yes, there _is_ something you could do to help! Hiro, I need you to find Molly. Find her and tell her about Samuel Sullivan – everything you remember about him. Yes, yes butterfly man, yes. Yes – tell her about him – find him online, get pictures, news articles, the whole works – then ask her to _find_ him, and call me back, okay? That would be an _enormous_ help. No, we're fine, just fine, just trying to keep this from blowing up. No, we got it. Okay then – thank you so much!" Flipping the phone shut, her face beamed in triumph. "Fuckers are NOT going to get away with this!"

"But what I don't get," Tracy added, "is what on earth would _ever_ make them think they could? I mean, since they're plainly aware of at least _half_ of what Samuel can do, even if it's just the basic premise – what makes them think he'll just… _help_ them? Just… _go along_ with it like a good boy? They've gotta have something he must want, but what? Or do they really think they can control him? I guess what I'm saying is… there might be something we're not seeing here. We should be careful."

"Sylar," Jennifer supplied. "Maybe that's another reason why they want Sylar so bad. To use all his powers and keep a lid on him."

"I hate saying it," Lauren admitted, "but I'm not sure Sylar's enough. They'd have to have more than Sylar to make sure Samuel would go through with it – I mean, once everyone loses their powers, essentially he loses _his_, doesn't he? He'd fight Sylar to the bitter end before he'd ever let that happen, and… I think he'd _win_."

"Maybe Samuel doesn't know what his powers do to others – the files make it sound like the only other people who knew were scientists…"

"Or maybe," Lauren answered, "they have more than Sylar. I agree. There's something we're not seeing. We need a plan – a good one… as soon as Hiro tells us where the hell we're going."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

The young African American girl had finally stopped whimpering and had settled into a complacent sort of trance, crumpled in a dispirited heap on the floor with her forehead resting against the glass, watching the ocean tumble away into infinity on all sides. Shadowed by sea-legged gunmen, Jim set the piece of the gun he'd been polishing onto a velvet cloth that held it in place while the ship moved, and picked up the satellite phone deciding now would be a good time to include his gracious benefactor in his good fortune. Usually he preferred to conduct his correspondence through Brother Jacob, having respect for the integrity of the relationship between the Preservist movement, the Church, and his employer – he wanted to do his best to preserve that solidarity. This time, though, he was too giddy and impatient to speak with the middle man.

Sylar and the dead senator's daughter had come back.

It took longer than usual for Neil to answer the phone. Unease rankled, Jim began to worry that karma might be doing her best to keep the universe in balance… at their expense. When the big man did come on the line, however, he was already shouting above the pandemonium of other voices and two sobbing women. Something had happened.

"Jim! You better be callin' with good news, you asshole, because I'm really fuckin' pissed at you right now!"

Suppressing an icy wave of childish indignance, he gulped and found his voice.

"As a matter of fact, I _am_ calling with good news. I got our killer back. _And_ the blonde. And not a moment too soon, too – we're about to go get our guy –"

"You dipshit – Sylar would sooner slit your throat in your sleep than give you one ounce of help!" Jim didn't want to temp the man's foul mood by reminding him that there weren't many people he couldn't coerce, even the renowned predator – every man had his price. "Just leave him locked up, and keep an eye on him this time! He can still be useful, which is a damned good thing for you! So how about that tail, huh? The one Jacob told me not to worry about? Because _YOU_ were supposed to have taken care of it back in _Midland_?" And then sometimes that solidarity was like a lead weight tied to his waist… and his eardrums felt like they were being punched. "Just an '_old man, an Indian, and a little girl_'? Right! Well, they just broke into this house and stole our collateral! Now, does that sound very '_taken care of_' to _you_?"

"No, it doesn't but –"

"And _THEN_ they took off with –"

"Neil! Calm down a minute, buddy – you're gonna give yourself another heart attack – listen! Let 'em go – we've got everything in place! We've got a shipload of freaks, I've got one of 'em to keep the crowd under her control as long as I let her sister live, and I've got two – _potentially three_ – strong telekinetics to keep this '_earth-shaker'_ of yours nice and quiet until you get here. The plan is still working!"

"They took Jacob, Jim! Don't you see? These people! They're fuckin' mind-readers and voodoo witches and shit like that! They're gonna get information from him! The only registries I have right now are for California, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Mississippi – we need more time – time to get enough people to really make this work!"

"Now, stop – it's gonna be fine, alright? Everything's gonna be fine. Besides, you're missing a fine opportunity here."

"How you figure?"

"Don't you think the public would like to know just what kind of people these freaks are?" Jim flicked his silver tongue like a rattlesnake's tail. "The kind of people that would barge into a good, Christian family home and _kidnap a preacher_?"

"You make a good point…"

"Of _course_ I do. It's my _job_ to be good with points. That gets out, and I bet we get ten more states to pass that bill by the end of the week."

"Yeah… you're right…" There was a stabbing, scratchy brush as Neil presumably muffled the receiver with his palm. "Sally! Tell Rosa to put them kids down and go get me my power suit! Daddy's gonna be on television!"

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_Claire assumed it was probably pretty rare when someone consciously knew they were dreaming, so she didn't complain about having been unwillingly sucked back into Sylar's dank, chilly, ashen grey psycho dreamscape yet again. Not that there would've been anyone to complain to… after all, the whole point behind his private hell was that he was stewing in it _alone_. But she also found it particularly disturbing that her fickle brain would have the audacity to not just conjure his image into her subconscious thoughts once now, but again a second time… Still, though, she didn't say anything. Begrudgingly curious, she was willing to roll with the punches this one last time._

_A biting wind turned tattered leaves in corkscrews through the rustling branches in the park, setting her feet to a determined pace, attempting to pump warmer blood to her extremities. When her toes touched pavement, however, her bewildered gaze slung from one building to the next, overwhelmed by the spotlight stare from a colossal audience of watching windows seated in rows and aisles like a crowded theatre watching a play. They were waiting to see what she would do… which way she would go. She wanted to laugh at her absurd moment of stage fright, but she really had no idea where to start looking for him in such a maze, and she truly didn't appreciate the scrutiny. And it was scary the way they loomed over her, so tall they appeared to curve like claws. _

_But the breeze carried with it an ingredient that hung in her senses, tangy and not quite pleasant, like the smell of… the smell of _fish_. The sea was upwind, and she was certain the scent was a sign, that she would find him there, so she ran in search of salt water. She skidded to a sandy stop, however – heels grinding into the mushy earth – when she reached the beach and found, tilting down at her with the same surprise, the last face she ever expected to find within the same repugnant vicinity as Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray._

"_Claire?" Peter breathed, almost sleepily. The sky above them twinkled a drowsy, almost drunken sort of swaying dance, and deepened into a languid, somnolent moonlit midnight blue. "What're you doing –"_

"_Peter – what are _you_ doing here?"_

"_The same as you," he smiled his trademark lopsided smile, the one that endeared him to her, "I'm here to _save_ him."_

"_But why?"_

"_Because we're heroes, Claire. Because he needs to be rescued. Because he needs us and he's not going to ask for help."_

"_But Peter, he –"_

"_I know what he did Claire. _He_ knows what he did. But if we can save him … if we can_ show _him… then we'll_ all _be healed." In spite of his cryptic words, his message rang clear as a bell in her head. He was talking about finding a way to move on. "There's good in him, Claire," he continued, "I've seen it. And there's_ love_ in him. He just doesn't know what to do with it. And he's scared. We can show him."_

"_It's hard," was all she could manage, even though there was more she wanted to say._

"_I know. _He_ knows. You know, it's funny," he began, stooping to examine a half-buried shell, "he told me not long ago that he was afraid I would hit him."_

_But that's who he was, beneath it all… just lonely and angry, and afraid the world would hit him again. _

"_Where is he?"_

"_Out there," Peter pointed as he nodded his head toward the placid rolling surf, rising and brushing the sand from his knee. "He's lost... lost sight of the shore. He comes and he goes like that. Sometimes he's here, but other times he loses his way and he gets frightened."_

_Frightened of what he might _become.

"_But how do I reach him?"_

"_That's a tough one, I haven't been able to figure that out, either." He stepped toward the water's pitching edge, letting the swirling waves slosh around his ankles as he eyed an object bobbing in the halo's pale reflection – a derelict craft. "Maybe if we just open up, make ourselves available to him…"_

"_But what if he hurts us…?" Peter didn't have an answer for her. Feeling stupid, Claire realized she didn't need one. Cavalier with her own invincibility, she squared her shoulders and waded out into the surf where she opened her arms wide like a siren calling her driftwood sailor home. A dizzying sensation of weightlessness swept her into the sky and she squeezed her eyes shut out of instinctual reflex until her feet touched down on something that would've felt solid had it not been fluidly rocking. When her lids parted, she found herself seated with both hands gripping either side of an old, weathered row boat… with no sign of an oar._

_And there he was, coiled in a ball at the bow of the dingy vessel, bound tightly in a hooded sweater that appeared to be doing very little to ward off a chill in the humid air that Claire couldn't feel. He was thin and shabby, and judging by the bearded state of his jaw he looked as if he'd been lost at sea for a week or more. And he was deeply submersed in a frigid, troubled, hungry sleep. _

_Unsure of how best to awaken the beast she knew him to be, she began by nudging a foot. When that didn't work, she summoned the courage to crawl over him, poised above his still form as she landed a purposeful hand firmly on his shoulder. A couple good shakes brought him around – he blinked twice and flexed his crooked spine before fully opening bleary eyes that seemed to lack any real focus._

"_Claire…?" he yawned, voice groggy from neglect. "…why are you here?"_

_She found it interesting the question wasn't '_how did you get here_'._

"_I'm here to help you find your way," she told him._

"_But…" He grappled against his surroundings momentarily, weakly trying to heave his body into a sitting position but failing miserably. Claire leaned away, suddenly feeling uncomfortably close. "… but you _hate_ me."_

_What could she say to that? The feelings she had for him that were once like a frozen razor had thawed into something tepid and dull and confusing. It was still easy for her to berate him and find criticism in his actions and mannerisms, easy to lay blame on him and hold him up to unattainable standards… but she couldn't claim to _hate_ him. Not anymore. Not if he was sincere._

"_I don't…" the words were jealously snuffed by her bitter pride. She swallowed as the water lapped a tranquil echoing lullaby against the hollow metal hull of the boat. "There's no way I can possibly forgive you," she began again, "but… I think I can _understand_ you."_

_His eyes, waxy and dry from malnutrition, still managed a pained mahogany as they bore into hers. And then, like a feral animal who only took what he could steal, he reached for her, quick enough she couldn't back away. The whispery tips of his fingers barely brushed the velvet of her cheek…_

Claire woke up with both her hands pressed beneath her face as a makeshift pillow… and Sylar's zip-tied wrist mashed precariously against her lips. Did… did she drool…? Dear lord. Between the quick jerk of her chin and her startled breath, there was no way he wasn't going to notice she was awake, but she risked a glance up to him anyway. Stiff as a rod, he made no indication he was aware of her change in status… a status that she realized completely mystified her.

"I… I must've fallen… how long was I out…?" She sat up and rubbed at her eyes with her free hand.

"Only twenty-three minutes," he replied without looking at her. "Give or take about sixteen seconds."

"Uhh… wow." _Freak._ "Yeah. But why would I need more sleep, I'm not even tired…"

"I dunno."

"I wonder if Monique zapped me…"

"You were probably just bored."

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

Okay. The distracted fixation on some unseen spot across the room was starting to get annoying. What was with his sudden aversion to eye contact, anyway?

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing, I'm just –"

"You know, I'm getting a little sick of your mood swings –"

"Shit's sake, Claire, I'm eavesdropping!" he admonished out of the corner of his mouth.

"… from here? Don't you have to be, I dunno, a little closer to be able to – oh my god, do you have super hearing?"

"Not anymore. It's sign language, stupid. Shut up."

"… tell _me_ to shut up…" she groused, settling into a posture that was more beneficial to her circulatory system. "Don't have to '_shut up_' if it's sign language, who's stupid _now_…" Leveling her chin with his shoulder, she followed his line of sight to where it landed on an excitedly nervous conversation taking place between Emma and Peter. "What's going on? What are they talking about?"

"There's people waiting for us at our destination. She… I think she said she was blindfolded when she got there…"

"That wouldn't surprise me."

"Yeah. They… they got there by helicopter, I think… either that or she's talking about angels."

"Angels. Yeah. I'd go with the chopper."

"Right."

"Because I really don't want to think about death and heaven at a time like this."

"There's no death or heaven for us, Claire. Okay, they picked up two men – that much I can tell for sure. They… heh. Yeah. That's great." He finally turned and met her with a flat stare that was completely droll with acrimony. "Just great. Thank you."

"What?"

"I sure hope you guys can honestly appreciate now that there are just _some_ people who _need_ to be killed, or else they just keep coming right back."

"Oh, no – no no no –"

"Like some stupid retarded game of whack-a-mole…"

"No – you don't rationalize that – who? Who is it?"

"Doyle. _Doyle_ is over there waiting for us."

"Ughh, oh god, for real?"

"You know, in hindsight, maybe tying him up in Christmas lights wasn't exactly the best plan…"

"No. Don't you _dare_. It's okay. We've dealt with him before, we'll just deal with him again. Just like you."

His eyes swung back around, narrowed in petulant accusation.

"Uhh, what? Just like _what_?"

"Please! Don't tell me you think you've got the patent, or something, on being the cockroach of our species?"

"I am _nothing_ like him!"

"Oh come on! You both do that, that, that… full _body_ thing, or whatever –"

"Claire, our powers could _not_ be any more different."

"And you're both completely whacko!"

He spun away from her dramatically. "You know, I'm getting a little sick of…" She didn't notice how the words died.

"Oh, don't even start with me. Just because I can concede that you're not '_technically_' a psychopath doesn't make that anything more than just a _technicality_. You both have issues that absolutely just _fly_ in the face of serious – bats in the belfry, my friend. Not to mention, neither one of you can seem to decide if you want to be good or evil, and you both have crazy eyes –"

"Claire, wait –"

"Neither one of you can seem to leave me or my family alone –"

"Claire –"

"It seems like the only stuff you _don't_ have in common is the fact that he's fat and bald, and you're a," she flapped a hand at him, "… a _string bean_ with, obviously, a lot of hair –"

"Claire! Please! Shut up! One minute!"

Before she could protest, their bound wrists flew into the space that separated them, presenting to her the pinched fingers that clamped her lips shut involuntarily. He was watching Emma again… but this time he was gaping, his quivering lips as pale as smoke. His gaze slid slowly until it returned to her, but the face that bore it was drained away of any of the effortless banter or sardonic humor that had graced its admittedly handsome features only seconds before. It was haunted by a breathless, unspoken, and contagious terror that she tried not to feel, seeping watery tendrils of creeping doubt deep into her bones and joints.

"What?" she whispered, though her brain begged her not to ask, his hold on her released.

"There's someone else there, too."

But who on earth could make _Sylar_ this palpably afraid?

"Who –"

He pivoted on his sitbones, and her right hand flapped against her chest as he grasped both of her arms. Her eyes widened out of familiar, unrestrained habit, but the fear that drove it was different this time. She wasn't frightened of him… she was frightened of _sharing_ fear with him. And suddenly she could read him – his meaning was etched across his face as clearly as the lines in the book that secretly filled her pocket. He wasn't afraid for _himself_.

"Claire…" Her stomach twisted. "I know that I have wronged you. So I need you to believe me." She hadn't even heard it yet, but she could plainly see by the fervent sheen in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw that whatever was to come next was sure to be swear-on-your-mother's-grave, holy bible gospel truth. "Please believe me when I tell you that I will not let any harm come to you."

She wasn't sure what scared her more.

"Who… who is it…?"

"Someone. _Bad_."

**A/N #2: DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM!**


End file.
